Tedious
by Novoux
Summary: Kida's hatred runs deep for Izaya for what he's done to Saki. And now he has his turn for revenge. Rated for gore and non-consensual acts of violence. For Evilkitten3; eventual Shizaya.
1. Divide by Zero

_**Warning for torture, gore, and non-consensual sex (rape). Turn back now if unwilling to read about any of these subjects.**_

* * *

They hang him like a fish to dry with his arms bending behind his back until his shoulder blades stick out like wings. Crucified, in their twisted version, of a demonic angel hanging on a hook with his arms bound and both popped out of their sockets. To be fair, Izaya's arms are still unbroken despite each and every bone in his hands broken and smashed beneath shoes and heavy hammers. When they laugh as he starts to squirm a gurgled cry starts to slither from his lips and it tastes like the blood on his chin. Dry, cracking, and stale air in the lavished room of an amateur porn set and Izaya finds himself the brightly-lit star, covering himself quickly in the many cuts that slice through skin enough to bleed. Only enough to hurt, because he can't miss out on this.

He laughs when they try to break him with words. Threaten anyone he loves—ha, ha, cute joke—until it's starting to become frustrating and while he wriggles from time to time after a well-placed punch or a sucker punch to his jaw that bruises his chin, they think of something else. A bunch of low-life idiots from a section of the Yellow Scarves, waiting for a bigger fish to fry and batter before they serve. Except they never remember that Izaya hates fish eyes.

"Oi, Orihara-san!" one calls; Izaya doesn't bother to lift his head when he can't see out of one eye and his vision is a little hazy. The drugs stabbed into the artery of his throat make life a little more difficult as the real fun starts to begin. "What do you want first, the arms, or the legs?" A sledgehammer clicks at a heavy boot and Izaya narrows an eye, hearing the clank of metal against metal and his blood starts to jump in his veins when he hears the scraping sounds. It's not like him to be like this—for two days he's been hanging on and off until they decide to gut him, but he never thinks they have the idea.

"I'd rather you play fair, Yellow Scarves-kun. Or should I address you differently, Horada-san?" Izaya lifts his head—mistake. Realizes it when another fist from a different corner and blinding light explodes into his cheek and his nose starts to gush blood. Dribbling down his lips, tasting like burning fire and copper and down to his tattered shirt. Somewhere along the way his jacket is missing and possibly in a torn heap set aflame. Only to agitate, but Izaya doesn't fall prey so easily. So he feels the first stab of a blade in his side like the pain bursting in his eye and wriggles with a caught gasp when the blood heats the chill of goosebumps. A gut wound isn't immediately painful and it's shallow enough that it won't cause any damage besides some bleeding. Smart as they think they are, they're stupid.

Stars burst across his eyes and his head rattles with the click of teeth and his brain slamming against the inside of his skull. "We're not playing your game, Orihara-san," the voice beside him coos and snarls with a twist of lips Izaya can't see. As far as he's concerned, his eye is bleeding or weeping salty liquid that starts to grate on raw nerves digging deeper than the flesh. "So I'll give you the suggestion to stop talking." Izaya raised an eyebrow at this while he calculates his thoughts, wondering where this is going exactly and feels the buzzing numbness in his arms start to travel to his chest. Heart beating erratically he can't convince himself quite yet that the ache isn't getting to him. It is, despite the wonderful show of indifferent boredom he can pull with a simple downward turn of the lips.

Horada in front of him, arms and fingers clenching at the skin of his wrists bound by cords and digging too deeply for his own good. Blood starts to split in numb little twinges of fingernails cutting through and the drug is working when he feels it. His arms are numb though his skin is alive. Humming with thousands of tiny networks of pain centers flaring and slowly coming to life after the last injection of whatever drug they can find while his vision starts to suffer. Horada looks like a blur compared to the dull white of the walls and the ugly floor leaking in blood. "Take him down," he huffs, sounding miles away to Izaya and he blinks—unaware of why the fingers are tightening and why it's beginning to hurt more than it should when he feels himself lift up, taking flight. And then crashing down to the ground where he collides with a rough thud and skin scraping, screaming in the pound of his ears, as it catches on the floor. Izaya blinks a couple times, albeit more sluggishly and feels a heavy weight settle on his back that feels like more bruises.

"Do you realize what you've done, Orihara-san?" Horada doesn't sound as stupid as Izaya remembers. A grim smile starts to twist on his face when his head lifts and pounds. Right before he feels a hand twist in his hair and slam him back onto the ground, pulsing with his nosebleed and the accuracy of bone cracking is something to be noted. Not in his current condition where Izaya starts to feel dazed from more than just the lethal mix of sedatives in his blood. Maybe they'll leave the swirls of vision and bursts of light in his eyes when he collides with the ground another time with a sharp thud and a crack reaching his ears. Maybe his nose is broken by now and he has the irresistible urge to laugh.

He opens his mouth to speak through the blood that begins to rush in and vaguely decides it is not a good idea. It tastes foul. And Horada is probably grinning if the room would kindly just stop spinning for a moment. "Feeling dizzy, Orihara-san? We've only just begun. And since you don't wish to cooperate, we'll have to play by my rules. Do I need to explain?" With this Izaya feels his head rush to the ground and pangs start to thrum in his blood. His heart is beating too fast too quick too much and he's starting to lose himself when his vision threatens to fade with black spots. "Nod, Orihara." No more honorifics and certainly no sense in trying.

Izaya has the audacity to grin at him, smiling with a smirk curling his lips while the blood runs in rivulets against cold flesh and bruising headaches. All the while he assesses the damage of a broken nose and a moderate concussion developing. His grasp is slipping, irritatingly enough.

Reaffirmed simply by the steel pressing against his carotid artery and the flash of light as Horada draws a knife.

This is going to be fun.

Izaya dips his head, dropping forth and feeling the fingers clench—too tight—in his hair before slowly inching up to send a look of disappointment at Horada. Not able to manage boredom Izaya can keep himself from biting through his lip when the knife bites into his throat and the fingers tighten again to digging into his scalp, Horada starts to walk toward him, shoving a boot under Izaya's chin and prying his head up to glance at him through heavy eyelids with the alarming rate of black spots dotting his vision again. "You play by your own rules. That's what got you in this mess. Playing us like a bunch of idiots." A sneer behind Izaya and a thumb jabs between his shoulder blades with a shock racing down his spine. Along the ridges of each vertebrae Izaya feels the heel of a knife, brushing against the raised knobs of his spine with the pressure on his throat from the knife's blade earlier disappearing to a silk-line trace of blood beneath his ear.

Horada's face is twisted in anger, frustration—such pretty emotions to count and file away for later. Of course he can't control his own childish rage when his boot connects with Izaya's face, snapping his head back with the crunch of teeth grinding together and bone.

The one holding Izaya down, sitting on his dislocated arms with full body weight that makes even breathing difficult without the temptation to flinch, shifts with the recoil force of a powerful kick to Izaya's jaw and tugs at his arms painfully. Muscles ripple beneath the flesh with stinging waves of agitation and teeth scrape against his bottom lip already split and seeping blood from previous bite wounds. He can't let Horada find satisfaction, no matter the effect, of his game that he wants to play. This is all observation on his own of how his precious humans react when angered and thirsting for violent revenge.

For some reason it reminds him of Izumi Ran. The violent sociopath, if he could possibly called that when he has proven himself in breaking a young girl's leg without hesitation or abusing that follower of his—Aoba. And Horada is just as action-first thinking-never as Izumi is with the violence intact and completing the image of the school bully untamed. A wild and unhindered by society type of violence that happens to be one of Izaya's favorites to observe and unfortunately at this time witness. Perhaps he can take it as a learning experience for more research to file away for later provoking and deconstructing human personality urges.

"Orihara, when did ya think you'd get away with this? Framing me, putting me in jail for a while?" Horada's foot bites his shoulder and that knife is digging into his throat again. Waiting for a silent answer, the look in Horada's eyes daring Izaya to speak when he knows clearly by now that it isn't the right choice if he wants to keep the pulse in his throat under control and not bleeding out on the floor. "Oh, you didn't, did you." Horada snorts and he flicks his hand, twirling the sledgehammer in his grasp and with a motion the heavy weight of the other rolls off of Izaya. "You had no idea in that messed up little head of yours that you'd be in this predicament. Well, I got better news for you, and you aren't gonna like 'em." The sneer on his face is disgusting, Izaya thinks. No passion, no life, just dead empty violence of revenge when he thinks it will actually get him somewhere.

He wants to speak up. Taunt him, insult him, prove him wrong.

But heavy words in an empty head don't weigh in.

The crack of the hammer striking the ground next to Izaya's head shudders throughout his skull. The floor beneath runs cracks and concrete breaks loose from the settlement in uneasy tension. A show of dominance, Izaya thinks to himself in grim amusement when he can't move despite not being sat upon by a lackey. In this display—no help, no distractions—Izaya can see the untamed anger of the human capability in one such as Horada. Examine him while taunting even if he is beneath the sledgehammer with arms stinging and numbing at an alarming rate. But all of this only serves to make Izaya's pulse start to thud louder in his ears with the flush of adrenaline biting through his veins. Moments like these are hard to come by without the proper stimulant. A drug of choice, perhaps, for an adrenaline addict like Izaya combining the pleasure of knowledge and one of his precious people.

All mixing for a dangerously addictive cocktail of pain and pleasure. Never as fun as watching Shizu-chan and his rages (they're not perfect because Shizu-chan can't possibly be human) with destruction and anger playing part. Though close enough with Horada's sneer and the two of them, seconds ticking by with the spread of Izaya's blood stinging his nose. Horada is only a case of maddening revenge and while without emotion is passionless repetitive motion, it does allow another chance to study the change in behavior. Every action, Izaya watches and records for later access, is a manner of the focus of revenge. Not even primal, just raging anger left unchecked and allowed in relevance to fear and superiority. Primal, in a way, but more the distinguished human trait of rage.

Like Shizu-chan.

And no light burns in Horada's eyes the way Shizu-chan's set on fire. "If I recall, Horada-kun, it isn't my fault you were arrested. You acted on your own behaviors instead of what I advised. Therefore my connection to your actions does not exist." Izaya challenges the angry eyes narrowing at him, smirk spreading across his lips and pulling them tight like a pull of a viper's fangs. He waits while the crack of the hammer against ground calls to him threateningly. Unfazed, he continues on. "But you want someone to take the blame for the punishment you deserved. Simply due to your lack of wanting to take responsibility for your explosive temper. You're not unlike a beast, Horada-kun." Angry angry angry—give him what he wants, Yellow Scarves-kun, and then watch as he unfolds into the perfect disharmony of temporary insanity.

Horada snarls, ripping a feral roar from his throat when he moves and the motions is just too quick for Izaya to move fast enough. The second he sees the sledgehammer moving Izaya makes to turn and push himself back out of harm's reach, but he forgets the most important rule of never forgetting all facets of the enemy's reach, twisting when in the milliseconds counting down to impending doom of live or regret Horada's foot stomping on his shoulder where the ligaments are stretched tightly. A guttural, broken noise of pain escapes Izaya's lips when he feels the boot pushing him down, squirming and it's too late when the sledgehammer comes down with the rise of Horada's smile. It is an ugly and inhuman smile with bared teeth and a taste for blood.

And unfortunately for Izaya, the explosion of bone, skin, and pulverized muscle comes with the fall of the sledgehammer on his left arm. Dragging down the disjointed limb with the swing connecting to the ground Izaya hears a scream tear through the air and buzz like a leaking gas line and an open lighter. Which he isn't aware of through the sudden dizzying rushes of adrenaline and pain spiking through his left arm previously purpling with numbness that his humerus has been crushed and Horada starts to laugh when Izaya realizes that the scream has somehow torn from his throat. It feels like boiling water rushing out of the broken skin with shards of bone in his peripheral vision, coursing and heart thundering in his chest to break against his ribs if he dares to breathe in faster or any more. Currently though he can feel every breath beneath his skin and the pulse of his heart in tandem with the rapid fire of blood pooling on the floor from his crushed arm where fingers still twitch in broken attempts as his nerves spasm.

"Don't you fucking dare, Orihara." Horada growls low and his foot digs into the dislocated shoulder, making Izaya's teeth snap right through his lip and blood begins to pool in his mouth. "Because this is your fucking fault. All of it." Sledgehammer dragging in front of Izaya's eyes he can see bits of blood and skin yet the urge to laugh bitterly at his own expense has suddenly died down in the raw scratching of his throat. It feels like he's holding in another scream when Horada presses his weight on his left shoulder. He wants to, even against his own judgment and better decisions which don't involve this insecure form of torture. Or information extraction. Even if this is simple revenge. He doesn't expect much more from Horada and doesn't dare to start. The only one that can manage to catch him off guard would be the blond brute.

Bones crunch under the force of the sledgehammer and his shoulder is creaking with a low moan that throbs like a heavy shudder. "Th-That's not polite, Horada-kun. After what I've done for you?" Izaya wheezes, winded more than usual and the pain is drugging his mind beyond his control quickly slipping. The desire to mock Horada and make him succumb to the insane desire of his own is still strong, even if it stings and bleeds out on the floor.

With the turn of blood like burnt copper filling the air with its scent the lackey to the side shifts and Izaya finds the flash of gold hair with a scarf not a coincidence. But a lovely, extraneous appearance of revenge that boils into bitterness.

"Shut the fuck up!" Horada's boot comes off of his shoulder and the pangs make Izaya wince, squirming once again though limited by his broken arm. "All you do is talk, Orihara! Nothing actually comes out of that mouth but bullshit!" So much anger Izaya can taste it like the blood on his tongue sliding over his teeth and pooling in his spit. The heady scent makes his head rush with empty air and bright lights contorting into shapes when he blinks. Another groan rasping on his breath when Horada's boot collides with his shoulder, jolting him back and then the boot slides under to his armpit and Izaya finds himself sprawled on his back and his broken arm thudding against the ground too hard and too painfully to keep from groaning.

His eyes sting. The addiction can't be helped. And the lone figure in the corner isn't expected but welcome in this game which catches Izaya's attention more than usual. Of course—the knife running down his spine is all too familiar now. Where else, if he was the one to teach the same amateur skills? Such a reunion is touching, if he isn't lying on the floor in his own blood and a sledgehammer is too close to him for his liking. "You're a parasite! A bloody fucking flea!"

_Oh?_

And then Horada's anger picks up that sledgehammer Izaya sees coming before it's too late. Which he tries to move, the urge to get out of the way as part of self-preservation while his brain is starting to shut down and focus on survival. A painful roll and a heavy gasp pitching higher when he stops ensures that the sledgehammer rocks against the concrete just where he was, right above the place where his spine would be.

Considering that his death would be violently painful as bones shatter from his spine to his ribs and puncture his major organs. Bleeding to death would be wracked with agony and a sledgehammer driving through the crater of his body and Izaya truly does marvel at the animosity present only for him. Horada is wild and viciously cruel, not unlike anything else he has seen before but hasn't had the unfortunate luxury of earning in a concentrated effort of actually kidnapping him. So he assumes Horada is thirsting for blood the same way he craves the rage and liveliness of Shizu-chan except in his humans.

Interesting, when they hung him earlier with hands twisting behind his head with a rope that was cut with the knife knocking against his spine. Two days and the torture is much more advanced than a simple hard punch to the stomach or jaw, leaving ugly bruises forming and blossoming like the cherry blossom tree season in Japan. Izaya faintly recalls it, watching the blond from the corner who stares and stares as though gaping at scenery or a horrifying sight. Only then to realize that he's covering himself in his own blood and tattered clothes and typically blood and bone shards don't go down the throat easily for digestion. Even Horada, wielding the hammer like a meat cleaver, is disgusted with his own handiwork of a design staining the floor from the spray pattern of blood from direct blunt force trauma and cracking bones.

Izaya also knows that with his arm not working he can bleed to death easily. Thinking too much of this and unable to move makes the next swing—Horada kicks him in the chin, teeth clicking back as his spine protests death one more time—crush his left hand and the growl from Izaya's throat becomes a shriek when every single bone in his left hand snaps under the pressure. On the ground he leaves a bloody print in the shape of his hand with splayed edges and freshly clotting, nerves on fire and stinging while Horada drags the hammer and swings again down unto Izaya's other hand and the same explosion of bone and skin while Izaya's throat is scratching raw and tired by the time he pulls the hammer away.

"Not so tough now, Orihara?" Horada chuckles at his handiwork, mocking Izaya lying on the floor and watching as the shock starts to set in with interesting accuracy and precision. Blood slowing heart failing silence that resumes and therefore leaves the most interesting part of the game out. "Hey, keep his hands out. Pin 'em to the ground." What Izaya doesn't know—figure moving from the corner and away from Izaya's field of vision in an interesting twitch—is that the swish and catch of knives being released from a spring lock means exactly what Horada has asked. Not until the weight is on his spine again and one pocket knife stabs through one hand and digs into the ground with a scream and the other hand follows suit. He can't see can't tell can't do anything useful besides try and pretend the noise of a dying animal isn't from his throat while Horada's grin only widens when hiding disgust at maybe his own humanity. Izaya's bruising eyes make it impossible to see now, relying on hearing while pulses of his hands echo throughout his body in heavy shudders.

The weight is still on his back. "Orihara!" Eyes don't open when his head is on the ground and the pounding white noise is roaring loud over the sounds of survival instinct and Horada's annoying buzz. "You see what happens, Orihara? You fuck with the wrong people, and you're fucked!" What does he mean by this Izaya isn't sure he knows exactly the full extent until fingers are on his belt and his mind is starting another wailing siren of alarm. No, no, no, no, this isn't happening now and not here.

He counts down in the silence of one part agony and two or ten parts frustration, anger, and finding this aggravating when kicked down. A foot on his spine, threatening teasingly to crush when the weight on his back shifts and rocks to stretch and tear the weeping cuts all over him. Drag in dirt and etch the scream that may or may not be building in his throat (all for nothing seeing as he is not this fucking pathetic) when the stinging is hot knives dipping through sinewy muscles and tendons to scratch and hollow out the surface of bones. Fill them with disgust and the knife that slips underneath his belt and hooks as his windpipe is slowly being crushed. And then he realizes his hands are stabbed in the fucking ground which means it can't possibly get any worse. Oh yes, he knows from experience of being behind the scenes when interrogations, dealings, or business runs foul and reeks of dried blood like fights with Shizu-chan and successful hits.

"Any last words?" A choice few in which curses are only the beginnings of how much his fingers—deadening in numbness and pooling blood as they are, trembling with false frostbite. "No?" Horada sneers and Izaya feels himself choking with not only the pressure of Horada's shoe but a sledgehammer striking the ground next to his ear and the threat of black spots lacing into his vision. It hurts and the rush of agony is intolerable at this point when all he feels is the eyes of amusement in twisted merriment and detrimental enjoyment. They want to watch him scream, he knows, so he bites his lip through the punctures of his teeth from before when the belt slices in half from the pocket knife attached to the weight on his legs slowly becoming numb while he gives a testing kick.

Just to see what happens and try to ruin his hands bleeding out. His left arm doesn't look too good (and the world is spinning and tilting on all sides like drunken nights of the same wanting to play a game but maybe not end in running too far and losing again) and blood stings down his throat and rubs his brain raw with sandpaper and dusting of drying flakes from his nose threatening to crack. Jaw and cheekbone already bruising violently Izaya feels the echoing throb of his heartbeat start to shudder and murmur inconsolably when boyish grasping fingers hardened with calluses pull at his skin-tight jeans and demand for more than Izaya has to spare.

"Isn't this..." Izaya spits blood from underneath Horada's boot and it gurgles and catches in his throat, clawing for a way out and mixing with mucous clogging anywhere to breathe from. No duct tape required. "Isn't this...enough, Ho—" stop stop _stop_ when eyes are glaring down at him and fingers are grasping the bare flesh tugged free of jeans cutting off his legs when the tip of the pocket knife slides down the backs of his legs. "Y-Yellow Scarves-san?" Wheezing when he can suddenly gulp in more air damp with blood, Horada must be satisfied enough to lift his boot from Izaya's spine and pull the sledgehammer back to his side. On Izaya's back he feels opening cuts oozing blood down the entirety of his legs and resists the urge to shudder when satisfaction isn't given so easily. Not without a cost and without formalities of payment for information when this is only a revenge-type argument that is supposed to leave Izaya broken.

They can try all they want.

"What's wrong now, begging, Orihara?" Horada twirls the sledgehammer and remarks the clean glisten of blood staining the sides that matches the floor oozing together in puddles of shiny reflections from ceiling lights. "That doesn't sound like the guy I know." Kneeling down to his level and Izaya feels fingers grasping the bare flesh of his ass and hisses audibly. "Because the asshole I know is a fucking manipulative piece of shit. You know him? His name's Orihara Izaya," and that sledgehammer rests dangerously close to Izaya's right hand which triggers the involuntary flinch, pull, and recede with churning hatred mixing with pain. "And he's a classic motherfucker. Screwed me right over without blinking." Something zips and with each metallic clink Izaya's brain is forcing itself to become more reactive than calm and collected when this isn't supposed to be happening and he's not—hard skin pulsing with its own beat and veins tracing back brushing in the crevice of his ass and he knows what this is. It doesn't mean he wants it or will just simply let this happen to him.

"And you," Izaya lifts his head, tugging ripping pulling and stifling the shriek that wants to sob its way out when muscles clench around the knives embedded in his hands and pull them from the ground, lifting to grasp with fumbling fingers leaking heavily with blood. Horada doesn't fucking know that he's an idiot and simply a pawn that's wasted when both knives are digging harshly into the flesh of his throat and there is a gasp behind him that freezes and tenses like the thighs holding him to the ground. "Are breaking the rules." Izaya knows that he sounds like a beast but he's sure not even Shizu-chan competes with this level of atrocity and animosity mixing on the floor with his blood. For what he knows and is clear in the spotting black is the knife against his throat when he pushes two of them with a force fueled with some kind of hatred and shaking unsteady fingers.

His veins, he sees, bulge in broken skin when he watches the blades sink into Horada's skin and hears the screaming against his eardrums. The knife at his throat is almost fitting enough for the desire to see blood and flesh and Horada on the floor with that mocking sneer twisted from a permanent adjustment by the sledgehammer at his side—Izaya knows all too well that these thoughts are unnatural for a god such as himself reigning above his humans.

This type, then, is simply one that he loves even less.

And he remembers this when Horada crumples and something hot rips into his skin and impales him with throbbing flesh, blood, and the irony of being taken when finally losing too much blood. He shudders, chokes on a cough and feels the urge to vomit blood when the _thing_ ripping him apart from the inside (is this really what he thinks it is because he's going to vomit anyway whether or not there is his blood for lubricant and he's running dry) and pulses when that same pocket knife digs in his throat.

It's enough watching Horada convulse as he falls into a dead faint with shouts fading like the last few breaths he stumbles over.

* * *

It's not so much a matter of waking from some time later to now as it is remembering that a very special guest has strung him up, once again, with the same dislocated shoulders and he may never be able to use them again. Which sets his mind to work on thinking how to wriggle out again and not cause too much damage for even Shinra to fix despite many losing battles to Shizu-chan and the frustrated disappointment for his own side completely absent now. This isn't Shizu-chan that he's facing against this time, however. Blond hair, angry eyes, but disgusted with himself when Izaya cracks open a swelling eye and the other feels empty like a jarred socket.

When he opens to breathe the sly greeting forced under the folds of mocking curt warning of _"Kida-kun"_, Izaya finds that his voice is no longer there.

Instead of gasping like a fish out of water and the informant happens to hate the eyes of dead fish like the ones right in front of him. Angry, but dead and dull. Boring to look at when Kida-kun isn't even trying to act angry. Apologetic like a lost kicked puppy and Izaya distinctly remembers the pain tearing him apart. But also that he isn't bleeding, which is an interesting aspect to it all. In mustering quiet silence with the narrowing eyes that express enough distaste to make it clear to Kida what exactly he means to say.

"I-Izaya-san..." Kida coughs, wringing his hands and now has the appearance of a lost kicked puppy set on fire. How amusing, but not enough for Izaya to simply forgive why he is here in the first place or the fact his eyelids feel heavy with sedatives. His entire is numb with dull throbbing not at the surface but beneath and radiating with aggravating recurrences. As well as the same with Kida's eyes narrowing in definite remembrance to feeling and anger that boils over. "I hate you." And here he is: the original _Yellow Scarves-kun_. Not fair in that Izaya can't muster the voice lost in his bruising throat and the possible break of his hyoid bone which would explain the feeling of never enough oxygen to breathe through his mouth in rough pants. Kida is trembling with barely-contained rage which is entirely directed at Izaya who at another time would like to study the angry reaction and save for later. File away for the city in his mind and situations to orchestrate the next time information becomes important again. Only when he isn't suffocating, possibly bleeding to death, and defiled with the rip and tear of being raped in unconsciousness. Oh, he does know this.

And then Kida does the unexpected: cuts him down with a pocket knife in his hand, Izaya remembering the feel on his legs and over his spine. One knee sticks out to catch Izaya and make a face that isn't annoyed with the groan that Izaya emits, but two hands move to one shoulder that happens to be his left. At this point Izaya is nearly about to commit the same act against Horada as he did earlier he sees white completely wrapped around his arm and set in a stiff splint. In which Kida takes the advantage of Izaya not paying attention to pop the shoulder back into its socket and listen to the gasp that comes and the stamp of a weak foot against the ground. One more pop with another shoulder and Izaya is groaning and panting for air as Kida watches him crumple to the ground. Defeating the legendary informant who happens to be the source of all this anger. Rage, fury, and while not as uncontrolled as Horada who took over for the...gruesome parts of taking the informant's dignity with blood lubricant, unconsciousness, and a cocktail of a power trip and arousal, it doesn't settle with him in the same jagged edges. In actuality of never telling the informant this useless information, he almost feels ill.

But then he doesn't. "I hate you, Izaya-san." he growls, snarling at the raised eyebrow and the eyes sparking the flint in which he knows is Izaya's amusement. He feels the urge rising in his veins and choking with its grasp of wanting to wipe the smirk permanently off his face. Show Izaya that he isn't the idiot Horada was who doesn't bother now, stabbed and Kida later may find him somewhere alive or somewhere not. They don't get along and never have except for the common hatred of Orihara Izaya. It isn't him either who plans this entire thing but takes over when Horada has no place here now. He gets first bait: Kida gets the prize. And Izaya can be hung and strung along until he becomes just as used and abused as Kida has been. An eye for a soul that Izaya can't guarantee if he's not even human. With eyes that flicker up at him, heavy and drugged with tiny flecks of anger seeping in. Even with all the privilege he has of Kida bandaging him and treating his wounds so he doesn't bleed to death the informant is too prideful to admit gratitude.

Fingers find themselves winding into Izaya's ripped shirt at the collar and pulling him forward to make Izaya fall against Kida's thigh, wrenching his chin to look up into the eyes that will be permanently implanted whenever he closes them. "I hate you for everything you've done." Hoarse rasps of breaths humming beside Kida, he decides that listening to Izaya being too human is too much. Toppling the god-king from his board game Kida snaps Izaya's head back with a tightening grip on his blood-matted hair, pressing him against his leg and lips curling in an ugly sneer. His hatred is becoming him and the best is he doesn't even know that this can be all carefully expected as Izaya waits for them—whoever is here, going by the echoes of voices and the window in the front of the room—to succumb to the greed, envy, and wrath that takes them and twists their human sides.

"Beg, Izaya." Kida snaps in warning. Izaya's eyes are on him and he hates the feeling of heavy weights and in turn knocks the informant back, uncaring of the bruising swollen arms. "Because no one will hear you now." Knife against a bruised throat he pushes Izaya on the ground, sitting on the knife wounds inflicted on his abdomen in the satisfaction of watching Izaya's face contort in sharp inhales. Above him Kida grinds his hips into Izaya's forcing more painful gasps to escape when his back arches and he squirms to get away. Bruised and injured hands make it easy when Izaya doesn't even have pants, hands pulling down his own jeans and revealing a flaccid penis (he's not aroused by this and he should be if this is Izaya and the effect is without the blood and reek of wounds) to which Izaya regards with suspicion. Good for him finally figuring this out.

"Either you suck, or you can get it raw." Kida hisses, pulling Izaya's head forward when he notices the unfocused eyes for a split second while Izaya hesitates on the urge of spitting. Without a voice, he realizes, Izaya isn't as devastating. The hand-shaped bruises on his throat and the hesitant press of muscles when he tries to swallow make it clear that the informant has no room to speak.

He wants to see the anger. Wants to see those eyes leaking blood just like their color and bask in the one being able to make Izaya this way. "What are you waiting for? Start sucking." Shoving his penis is Izaya's face isn't a sight he gets to see and the smallest rebelling part of his mind—stop it. Izaya deserves this, he reassures easily while he moves back and pulls Izaya up and over him with his dick in front of his mouth. Eyes narrow in an amused glare, nothing coming from bloodied lips when Izaya's suddenly wrap around the head of Kida's dick and the blond has to stifle the moan that threatens to boil over. He can't watch (doesn't want to see the source of his own blinding anger) but he forces himself to as Izaya licks and sucks, ignoring the feel of blood from opened sores in Izaya's mouth that slide thickly over his penis.

Kida moans, unable to keep the sounds from the pulses of pleasure wrongly deserved from staying silent with the thrum in his veins. Izaya beneath him is thankfully silent for once, sucking and saliva dribbling down his bruising chin with subdued anger in his bruising eyes. Another hard suck and the tongue at the tip of his dick forces another moan, thrusting into the same heat of Izaya's mouth and catching the gag that sounds. Saliva down Izaya's lips and on Kida's penis is tinted pink and thick with dehydration but Kida forces himself deeper instead of pretending to care while Izaya chokes again and broken fingers clench at the ground.

The grip in his hair is threatening as it hangs overhead and waits for Izaya to stop or bite without permission, resulting in the snap of his neck wrenched backwards if Kida allows for it.

Never has he felt this much control before—it's overwhelming and exciting and tastes like the danger of blood in the air the same tint as Izaya's eyes. Drying quickly and clotting with sticky saliva like the brush of skin against Izaya's teeth and a silent warning that Kida glares down onto him. If looks could kill, Kida would only be hitting him. Izaya would set fire to them all, going by the anger and rising humiliation of the punishment for a deceitful king. Rightfully disinherited, Kida continues to tell himself in order to let his erection last. He can't soften now, or he'll let Izaya know how much this affects him. It's suicide in guilty pleasure.

Enough. "Off." Kida pulls Izaya's head back, almost jerking the informant off with painful applied pressure. From swollen lips his dick falls, covered in saliva and hands push Izaya away quickly before Kida can let him see how close he is to coming. And with a thump that is not as satisfying as the anger that flares on Izaya's face he falls on his front, letting out a breathy whine of complaint. Only moments of hesitation before Kida is peeling off the underwear, on top of and like a bitch to be tamed he mounts Izaya and leaves no room to scream. The next moment that comes and Izaya flinches in a full body shudder that feels like a death rattle Kida is inside of Izaya, thrusting hard and he watches as Izaya spasms and claws at the floor. As broken as his fingers are he's not getting anywhere further than the silence that comes in hitched breaths.

He moans with the thrusts that come, unabashed in watching Izaya contort and clench around him and it feels deliciously wrong, tearing the scabs that come from yesterday and feeling the blood leak onto him. Pulsing heat and the slick feel adds only more to ease the friction, sliding in and out as the blood puddles on the floor and Izaya continues to be defiled so _easily._ He knows exactly what he's getting in to but the groans are hard to bite on and his blood doesn't taste the same as the one soaking Izaya's pale skin. And it's a curious thought he could care about some other time. But for now is the tight, wet heat of blood and saliva and pre-come sliding out from his tip and smearing the insides as his thrusts grow rougher.

Which reminds him—"No coming, or I'll cut your dick off." Grabbing his hair and pulling the black head back with a tug, biting Izaya's ear and the clench is utterly satisfying in return. What he's doing he's not thinking about so much as the pleasure that's slowly building in his gut, forgetting everything and everyone else and that this is Izaya in front of him he's fucking. Lubricant of blood, saliva, and his own pre-come when he'd never think about this—don't think about it don't do it no no no—

"Ah, fuck!" Kida feels his own orgasm coming, very much aware of it and letting it happen as it starts to rapidly build and his thrusts get harder and harder. Beneath him he thinks he hears a whine and digs his fingers into Izaya's spine and ass. "Nnn—!" Up and up and up until it's like a heavy breath after being underwater for far too long and he's coming, waves crashing down and with a sigh clenched between teeth and possibly not regret he fills the parasitic informant.

Blood slips on the floor with white come when he pulls out. "This is only the beginning, Izaya-_kun._"

Izaya goes still, pinned to the floor and whether or not he's aroused Kida doesn't concern himself. Simply tucks himself back in his pants and leaves without another glance.

Checkmate.

* * *

_I discovered kink meme, and this happened. If you want to find the original, it's on page six of part twelve. I do warn you that this isn't going to be pretty. Also, happy sixth anniversary on Fanfiction to me. How has it been so long I don't know.  
_

_See a spelling mistake? Let me know, please.  
_

_Thank you for reading._


	2. Intent in Convenience

The stench of cigarettes is something to live with when the nicotine rush is the one he needs the most. Right after his phone buzzes with a new text from Celty, who he hasn't seen nor heard of in days. [Hey, have you seen Izaya? He hasn't been around in a while.] Which shouldn't concern him when he doesn't give a fuck one way or another about the shitty flea, but decides to grumble to himself and accept the fate of texting back.

[Shizuo Heiwajima: Haven't seen him. What do you want with the asshole anyway?] Considerably a blessing that Izaya hasn't been around to torment him and destroy Ikebukuro in what has now possibly been two or three days. Maybe more, but he doesn't care as long as it's quiet.

Buzz. [It's been a week, and Shinra doesn't know where he is. Usually he says something, but this is odd even for him.] Wait—is she supposed to care about the shitty flea now all of a sudden? Shizuo's eyes narrow behind blue sunglasses, off work and certainly uncaring of whatever the fuck Izaya decides to do with his free time. What's it to her, anyway? Who would possibly care for the troll like him?

[Shizuo Heiwajima: Don't care. Hell if I know.] And he expects the usual reply pertaining to _of course you don't_ from Celty and raises his cigarette slowly cracking in his fingers to take another drag. More, because nicotine does little for even thinking of the flea. He's also curious, somewhat guiltily in his own mind, of why Celty is asking him now of all times with the prior knowledge of not giving a damn.

Celty's texts are far too quick for his peace of mind. Slowly they start to crumble his cigarette and the plastic of his phone creaks dangerously. [I know. But...if you find out, would you text me? Shinra's not sure why he's been quiet for so long, and it even makes me nervous.] And fair enough it would for anyone who knows of what Izaya is capable of. To which the thought already snaps Shizuo's cigarette and he smashes it beneath a shoe, huffing with smoke tendrils lazily expelling from his mouth in what he knows is going to be a long night if he has to think about this.

He's not _concerned_ at all. Just frustrated when he has to respond to these kinds of inquiries when Izaya isn't important at all. Good riddance and if he knows what's good for him, he won't bother coming back. [Shizuo Heiwajima: The louse will show up soon enough. I don't know what he's planning.] And Shizuo doesn't like this at all. Celty need not know, however.

It stays with the same conscience for another week of silence stretched tight like duct tape.

If only they knew.

* * *

It must be hilariously funny to them when they watch Izaya squirm the first few days. Cough, gag, and choke on penises thrust in his mouth after Kida's turn, always first, wanting to tame a bitch just like he has and do it while the informant's throat remains ever-bruising. They don't watch when Kida has his turn of the day, knowing to respect the leader while Horada is always the one to stand out. A knife wound close to his jugular and another in his shoulder clipping a collarbone and he hasn't been in a good mood at all for a week. The second week comes by with his return, angry and refusing to look at Kida despite the deal they have without hating each other as preconceived casualties for actions made in hostility. For this week Izaya's fingers have been reset and broken enough times that the scars forming on his hands reopened several times _without_ permission and devastating consequences for everybody in the small group of thugs. Horada decides that this time, he wants to make it more personal than the last.

Horada wonders if they hang Izaya with arms twisting behind his back and above his head for mockery or just for giggles. Watching the devilish informant the first few days is more fun when he struggles and bites his lips to keep the sounds from filling the room. So then they've decided that hearing Izaya beg and cry for mercy sounds better, and then his fingers end up broken and set endless times afterward. But they haven't realized like the children they are, that when they continue to break and stretch and pull until the crucified demon with the looks of an angel—ha, very funny—can't keep making those lovely sounds anymore. If anything, his throat bleeds and bruises under fingers and hands printing like polka-dots in shades of purple, red, blue, black, and some yellow borders.

Slapping Izaya awake from his fishhook Horada feels Izaya spit on him, lips curling in a silent snarl while his entire body is trembling. Kida's right beside Horada, feeling the splatter of blood and saliva with a water bottle in hand meant to actually give the informant water. Being neglectful isn't what he prides himself on but with Izaya, these two weeks of switching personalities for Saki, the group, and here, is like developing bipolar disorder. And if he dares to think about what Izaya, either hanging on a fishhook or being beaten to near death and revived again, reeking of semen and dried blood with the edge of infection, he can't and doesn't want to wrap his mind around it.

"Fuck you too." Horada's fist slams against the side of Izaya's face before he wrenches away and before Kida can stop him. Izaya's smile that comes with broken skin on his lips is bloody and dried, just like the anger in his eyes. Quietly seething Kida begins to think he is when his eyes are open enough now to glare at them. His throat isn't healing when he's strangled by jumpy hands and adrenaline mixing with testosterone rushing through their veins. Although for Kida, he doesn't classify himself as one of the idiots in the group that comes to take their turns on beating Izaya or raping him, knowing the rules Kida sets.

Kida, as he sees himself, is above them. He is their leader and they obey him first. And if he says Izaya doesn't get to ever come when he's raped, then his word is law. So he watches as they carry out each command, feeling the pride that slowly loses the heavy weight of perhaps guilt and empathy—there is _nothing_ for Izaya to grasp on to—when he feels the power surge in his veins. Even as the blood-tinged spit trickles down Izaya's chin or Kida's dick, all he can think about is the surge of achievement that comes when Izaya is slowly breaking apart in front of him. Maybe it's the torture, though, when Kida participates in pulling Izaya's fingernails off one by one, blindfolded and knives pressed to his eyes by another when Kida commands him to cry. He wants to see Izaya cry, even if it's a show and _very_ convincing because it means in whatever childish or stupid means that he wins. He wins this stupid game and his revenge is only better when Izaya cries on command.

Otherwise, this is all so tedious.

"Does the bitch need a blindfold?" Horada asks, whipping out a pocket knife and pressing beneath Izaya's left eye, watching the twitch in reaction with sadistic amusement. On command or simply by trained technique of finally getting the blindfold off soaked with salty liquid the red eyes become mysteriously wet. While Horada finds this amusing and wants to go further, Kida holds out a hand to stop him. It's not fun if he gets what he wants only in the beginning—Izaya knows how to please and learns quickly. A good and a bad thing, if looking for the sparks of anger to start a wildfire and revel in the rage of when Izaya convulses on the floor when stabbed to tighten his ass with two dicks possibly shoving in and ripping the skin apart. "What the fuck, man?" Horada grumbles, reluctantly stepping back while Kida steps forward, holding the water bottle to Izaya's eye level and watching the red eyes widen marginally.

Kida knows he wants the water. Needs it after a couple days too many of going without. Food hasn't been spared either, but he can't let the fun die of dehydration just yet. "You want a drink?" Shaking the water bottle Izaya's eyes pretend not to follow the movement but Kida can clearly see—even an idiot like Horada can. And hold back a snicker poorly while Kida maintains his composure. "Open your mouth, eyes closed." An indignant glare, challenging Kida's authority and newly found and kept in strengthening development when Izaya can barely move. The pain he's in (Kida tells himself that the bastard deserves it all and more, no matter the screams that gurgle in his throat after too much) is unbearable as the will to fight Kida in all its untamed glint is slowly starting to fade. Which bothers him, but he says nothing when he raises the water bottle and uncaps it when Izaya follows, easily learning. Slivers of his eyes still watch him and that's fine for now; Kida doesn't care when this is only for his amusement. _His_ revenge for himself—for Saki.

(But this, the smallest voice whispers in the corner of his mind, is not what Saki would have wanted.)

Horada watches, almost dumbfounded and stupidly as he can with Kida holding the lip of the bottle above Izaya's parted lips, cracking at the seams and crusted with dried blood (maybe a hint of white that's sticky and left from a bad clean-up job Kida will need to hastily give consequence to) and the first drips stick to Izaya's tongue like tar. His throat moves, brokenly, with the small drops of water that Kida filters from the bottle and watches Izaya in this moment of bared weakness. If he pulls out his pocket knife now, he could kill Izaya easily. Actually, he could kill Izaya at any time.

But he doesn't want to. Not when the informant is in the palm of his hand and perhaps it's not all his doing to grab him from his power in the first place, toppling the game board and knocking all the pieces off the table. Though he gladly takes the roll of pretending to be the new king. His pride keeps him like that, watching warm water dribble through and slip over lips and tongue like air to suffocating lungs.

"Don't spill," he warns, slowing the drips and Izaya sighs in frustration quietly. "Or you don't get any more." Again the water starts to spill and Horada is pouting with boredom of watching the informant be treated like a dog, seeing no point unless if blood is spilling or there are screams piercing the air, which he hasn't been rewarded with no matter what he does. If he breaks bones, Izaya doesn't make a sound. The inside of his mouth, however, is another story from broken hisses to yelps and shrieks that don't exist in an informant's vocabulary when his bones break and nails pull or the hilt of a knife is shoved up his—Suddenly Izaya coughs, and the water bottle drops on the floor by Kida's own doing.

Eyes snap open, irritated, red, and dry when he sees the water bottle on the floor and lips purse because they both know he wants more. Too bad. Yet he watches the water spill on the floor almost helplessly and the different light in his eyes that Kida catches is strangely beautiful to him. Helpless. Wanting. Needing. And all Kida wants is to see more, taking it into the palm of his hand then slowly with fingers carefully wrapping around each and every tendril, squeezing until it suffocates and bleeds between the gaps of his fingers. All his doing, if he considers the madness in total of the idea.

He turns to Horada, knowing the glimmer of want for the bloodlust in his eyes that are dead. Most of the thugs have nothing in them and Kida finds himself questioning why. "Don't get him dirty and don't kill him." he murmurs darkly as a warning, turning to move away from Horada and sitting on the windowsill of the two-way window. Horada on the other hand immediately strikes out, grabbing Izaya's chin and underneath the hyoid bone, gripping tightly while the action even makes Kida jump and Izaya choke when Horada leans his head in to growl in his face. Angry at the bloody saliva and the stab wounds all from Izaya, but refusing to notice or care that Izaya has seen much better days.

"I bet you're happy to see me again, you little bitch." Horada sneers, tightening his fingers and searching for a reaction. Izaya stares on, empty-eyed and almost unaware that he's there. It's almost the same feeling as the empty scoop of Kida's chest that's been cut out and while hanging on a thread almost to reassure his own humanity, he can't see Izaya and it's all his fault. Whoever is hanging on the hook, he's starting to realize, is not the same informant he wants to torture and exact revenge from while Saki recuperates stubbornly in a hospital. "Hey! I said listen to me, you fucker!" Horada moves to slam Izaya's head into the wall, uncaring of the bloodstain already there and finally relishing when those eye squeeze shut and teeth click and scratch. The bruises on his throat are only multiplying at this rate. "Wake up, rabid bitch! You're not in your cozy little office anymore, are ya?" Horada snarls, tugging Izaya off from the wall and shoving him on the ground carelessly. Kida's spinning his pocket knife in his hands, torn between wanting to warn Horada not to break his toy and waiting patiently for what happens.

He already knows, going by the stench of salt and blood in the air. Even if they've cleaned the place _and_ Izaya, he knows intimately from having set the examples and training his little puppies to wrap around his finger, forgetting when maybe it's time to slow down and realize that he sounds like a psychopath when he finds only pleasure in watching others rape and torture Izaya with him present. He's a high school student—disconnected from the world—Mikado and Anri-chan can _never_ know what he's doing in the mornings or afternoons of bringing an informant to his knees and making him suck, fuck, and ride with tears down his cheeks. Commanded like a good dog and Kida's slowly starting to lose touch with reality until the very moments of meeting up with Saki again. And then comes the guilt after Izaya stops showing any signs of being himself. Quiet, desolate, and why isn't he _angry!?_

"Come on! Get angry at me!" Horada's shouting and it pulls Kida from his lost reality and back to where he is, watching as Izaya bleeds on the floor and chokes and spits blood from being kicked in the head again. At this rate he looks nauseous and Kida thinks he has a concussion from all the kicks he's endured. Kida watches closely as Izaya's body jerks, motionless and barely a sliver of strength to pull into himself when he's aching and bruising all over. His left arm hasn't healed at all in the span of a week, nor have his fingers or the scars turning in his hands if they keep getting reopened when some idiot decides to pin him to a wall with his hands and feet stabbed in the ironic position of crucifixion.

"What's wrong now, asshole!? Can't lunge at me and try to rip my throat open like last time!" Horada's chanting, sitting on Izaya now and choking him to hear the gurgles and watch broken fingers curve when he grasps for the floor. But he suddenly grows bored when Izaya's eyes threaten to slide shut, releasing him and digging a hand into a revealed stab wound on his stomach while the other hand searches through his pockets. Disgust smears across Horada's face when he realizes how ugly Izaya is, covered in bruises and bleeding everywhere. Sure he doesn't care if the informant dies, but this isn't going how he wants it to.

A lone cigarette and a lighter in hand, Horada shoves them in Izaya's face and dangles them between two fingers tauntingly as if those dull eyes are going to care. They should, if he has the same thought process as Horada. "Look, bitch," digging fingers into swollen flesh he enjoys the cringe that brings the attention back to his face away from the lighter and cigarette, unmoving when Horada wipes the blood off on Izaya's destroyed shirt. "You might want to start being interesting now, or you're going to find yourself burning for more." Laughing at his own joke Horada puts the cigarette between lips, flicking the lighter once, twice, and taking a deep inhale of the burning tobacco. Izaya's not putting it together yet until Horada releases the smoke in Izaya's face and watches eyes blink and try to turn away.

Kida surprises himself when he watches it—_lets_ it happen. The cigarette sizzling a circular burn into Izaya's collarbone and watching the jolt and arch of trying to get away when Izaya feel the fire on his skin and his mouth is open, hitching on air. And another drag as Horada starts to laugh, nearly stubbing out the cigarette on the next burn to Izaya's bruised throat and by this time he thinks he hears a high-pitched squeak, bloody tongue clicking in the informant's mouth over air and forcing his voice down that could possibly be there. Another drag, curling smoke and breath reeking of impending doom, Izaya squirming uselessly when his throat is burned and singed again and his back arching higher despite the pull it has on the cuts and stabs stretching tight.

It continues on several more times with each starting to buzz in Kida's ears. It's annoying, so he calls out when Izaya's temple is burned and the thrashing ceases as blood starts to tinge the air once more. "Horada, knock it off." Even surprising himself when Horada doesn't listen and doesn't even look at him, preferring to admire his handiwork until Kida pushes himself up, and the pocket knife in his hand is suddenly twirling and sticks on the floor, wobbling carefully when embedding in the ground covered by Horada's pants. Now he has attention and he's commanding it. "Get off. You can go wait or watch, I don't care."

Cigarette clenched in his teeth, Horada rolls his eyes and removes the knife. "Fine, fine, have it your way." A hand moves to another pocket and Kida readies to throw another and not miss his target this time. "Just let me have a little fun, why don't you?" Horada grumbles, holding what looks like a container of—

Salt.

This looks interesting, especially when Izaya's eyes widen in recognition and suddenly Kida can see the survival instinct running haywire when Horada tips the container, letting white grains fall onto Izaya and then he hears it: a croaking, scraping cry from Izaya when salt inevitably falls into his open wounds. Horada's hand is moving then when salt rubs and pushes into every open wound uncovered and Kida finds himself watching when squeaks force themselves pushing up and clawing out of Izaya's throat that sound like amateur shrieks or yelps of agony when he himself knows what salt in a wound feels like. Not intentionally, however, and it's what makes him watch when Horada pours more into the cigarette burns and holds his hand like a deliverer of fate, cupping salt and watching it pour into Izaya's wounds and fingers dig in to rub it in further.

Kida is curious if Izaya registers the humiliation of still writhing and choking when Horada stops, getting off of him and deciding that Kida's knife looks better planted in his foot—and from that Kida hears the phantom of another scream, tearing Izaya's throat raw when his eyes are wide open and doesn't believe that it can't get any worse. Now is the time where it's lucky that they have coagulants so Izaya can't bleed to death when the steady stream of blood flows from the wound and he knows he's going to punish Horada later, be it with a lit cigarette or a head into the wall. Izaya doesn't need to know when it's him that is meant to be tortured.

But oh, can it get worse. "Go." Kida commands, unwavering and doesn't wait for Horada to leave when he moves over to Izaya, studying the agonized face and the anger that starts to liven up once again. Just as soon as Horada skulks away with an obvious hole in the front of his pants, Kida leans over Izaya and settles his hips on Izaya's bony ones. The withering look from below is just as powerful as it is when he's not covered in his own blood, but Kida covered and backed by knowing there's little Izaya can do (not wanting to think about what he can when this ends) to throw him off or injure him. But he knows his lesson from watching Horada, seeing the bandage on his throat and knowing how easily it could be him. It does little to make him wont to have pity for the devil beneath him.

"Izaya-kun," Kida addresses him curtly, waiting for those red eyes to focus on him and sees the pupils as wide as they are with the pain curling behind them in ashen traces. "You're going to ride me. Get up, or I won't take the knife out." The instant glare he receives is one promising a slow and painful death, perhaps even buried alive and Kida finds this even more to the slowly-growing arousal pooling in his groin. Before he lets Izaya off, he calls to Horada. "Get the bandages and water. Pull the knife out of his foot." He hears the scoff of complaint but knows that Horada follows willingly like the troublesome puppy he is. It takes one two three—seconds when Horada pulls the knife, letting it clatter to the floor even though Kida's back is turned because he knows that the men watching are loyal like well-trained dogs. More blood starts to puddle and Kida makes a point of avoiding it, pulling Izaya over while he himself sits on the concrete floor and with a crooked finger, beckoning the unwilling informant to crawl toward him.

But it's infinitely painful with the salt rubbing wounds raw and some starting to leak with yellow pus on the ground when Izaya rolls in on himself, careful of the broken left arm that hasn't healed and salt rubbing whenever he does. Watching him squirm is like ants under a microscope and slowly being crushed by the sample glass to cage them in. Fondly recalling a middle school biology project of dissecting a live frog and watching it croak and squeal as there isn't any anesthetic for a frog. But Kida finds that Izaya is more of a slug, slowly drying up with salt and oozing with pus and blood and saliva from a hanging jaw and his entire body is alive with tremors.

"Get moving, Izaya-kun." Kida mentions with a not-so-gentle jab of his foot to Izaya's right arm, watching as Izaya loses his balance and falls into a puddle of his own blood, soaking everywhere. At this point the door opens and Horada comes back with the required supplies, but also an unmarked red canister that Kida makes a point of to question later. From Izaya's blood-matted hair he can see gashes on the back of his head, even daring to dip into the nape of his neck and dotted with traces of fingernails and old cigarette burns. So, Kida narrows his eyes in contempt, he's already known what cigarettes feel like on broken skin.

Izaya collapses on the floor, smearing blood and pus and curling in on his side that doesn't have a stab wound above his hip, burning with salt and from his eyes Kida can see oozing wetness that trails down his cheeks. It's the first time that he's not commanded for his own sadistic amusement of wanting to break the informant, finding it previously impossible, but this makes it so _easy_ when he's already breaking down. Although Kida does admire how long he's held on so far, seeing as he's not giving up now but simply curling in on the pain of salt rubbing and exhaustion beginning to set in. If he doesn't know any better he could easily kill Izaya with the neglect alone and with the open wounds—namely the sores of missing fingernails bleeding yellow and ulcers developing—and watching when he treats the wounds himself at the end of each day, knowing the look of pain that comes from dumping rubbing alcohol on open sores and forcing down antibiotics.

It's all so mesmerizing to witness Izaya breaking apart, wound by wound and tugging at his mind with little sleep and no water. "Izaya-kun, you're testing my patience." Bored already Kida sits up, grasping Izaya's bloodied hair and marveling at how greasy it has become and sticky from its usual gloss, frail with lack of nutrients and it still has its pull on Izaya's head when he tugs harshly. Izaya rises up with the pulling, a soft groan on his lips and Kida never lets any of them kiss him, saving it for never because of those lies Izaya spreads with his mouth. It's only for sucking and licking semen when Kida comes in him and the twist of his expression when he's forced to drink what comes from his abused ass. Izaya collapses between Kida's knees and nearly in a dead faint at this point, Horada silently fixing up the knife wound that has gone all the way through the bruising foot and pours rubbing alcohol over it. It lights Izaya with electricity, trembling and shaking when his fingers claw at his palms and he has no sound to voice the cry that twists his tongue.

Kida's tired of waiting. "Suck, Izaya." Fingers circling a fresh cigarette burn Izaya doesn't dare look up at him like a bitch surrendering to its place. Izaya's right hand steadies himself and remembers not to touch Kida, as per the rules, lowering his mouth to the open zipper and carefully licking the head of the beading tip. The shudder that travels through Kida reverberates in Izaya's mouth, thrusting upward for Izaya to hurry the fuck up and not keep him waiting while he's hard. If sees Izaya covered in his blood and smells the rust of anger and frustration it'll turn him off faster than Izaya screams when he's penetrated with two dicks and one choking him.

His lips surround the reddening head, taking precaution to swirl his tongue and flick at the slit and suck the oozing semen that comes free. Cautiously he swipes underneath, tracing a bulging vein and hears Kida moan without abandon. Over the time of fucking Izaya the informant knows that Kida doesn't bother to restrain his reactions any further. They only humiliate him more, but he never allows Kida to know. There is no moan or reaction of arousal from him when he swallows Kida all the way to the base, propping himself on his elbow so he can wrap his right hand around the length and pump with aching fingers. As long as Kida moans and doesn't pull his hair too hard he can't hear the gags that come from choking—against the rules to make a sound. Having water dumped on him multiple times and held underwater in a bucket he knows the rules all too well.

He hears the clicks of Horada's heavy boots and listens despite the ringing in his ears, focusing more on ignoring the throbbing penis in his mouth and how undignified he has been in the time of being held which he doesn't know for sure. "Nn—ah, douse him already." Which make alarm bells sound in Izaya's ears and it's shortly before Kida is about to come that he feels ice cold water douse him. Immediately he freezes in place, stopping when Kida's already moaning louder and his entire body is begging for rest when exhaustion settles in with the freezing cold. Ice cubes have already beat against his back and clatter onto the floor, drenching everything while Yellow Scarves-san doesn't seem to mind at all.

Kida shivers and Izaya finds the irony when his entire body is trembling violently. But he arches into Izaya's mouth when he returns to sucking, swallowing with difficulty as semen starts to mix with saliva and his penis hits bruised muscles in his throat as he bucks. "Hah—mmn," Kida swallows and shivers, knowing he's close and with Izaya sucking harder he can feel the height of arousal building and then he's coming so quickly he sees stars when he shoves his penis further down Izaya's throat, enjoying the clench of muscles milking him dry when he does come. The only thing that ruins it, Kida returns from his high and his eyes narrow when Izaya pulls back and starts to lick at the tip of the softening erection, is that Izaya chokes when he swallows and Kida doesn't need to hear the disgusting sound. Which prompts him to give another order to Horada that is ignored in the buzzing of Izaya's ears and all of a sudden his arms are wrenched behind his back, forcing him to the ground and teeth just _grazing_ the head of Kida's cock which makes him yelp. Izaya forces down the cry that comes from his own throat when he feels fingers tie his wrists together and then he's being forced back up to sitting on his legs. Underneath him they're trembling and aching and he can barely stay up without Horada's painfully tight grip on him.

"Izaya-kun, I'm disappointed." Kida bites from grit teeth, shuffling and clearly unimpressed with the attempted bite from Izaya's reflexes. Dulled red eyes stare back at him, waiting patiently with the emptiness of a pain-clouded mind and nothing to quip back with a worthless throat. "When I've told you, biting isn't allowed." And then he's lunging at Izaya, fingers digging into the cigarette burn over a cut on his collarbone and reveling in the cringe and flinch when he rubs grains of salt further into the wound. Izaya arches and squirms like a fish out of water, mouth open and Kida shoving his fingers into the bloodied sores on Izaya's tongue with the command to _suck_ or else. Kneading the wound to force Izaya into further submission he feels the tongue working on him, coating his fingers with saliva and blood once again and perhaps feeling nice enough to lull Izaya into a false sense of comfort.

Like he cares. Izaya still writhes and moves when those fingers come back coated in blood and the others in saliva. On the floor he takes his fingers sticky with blood and grabs a mound of salt that sticks easily enough and shoves Izaya down onto his back. Of course he cringes and his body shudders when he falls on his arms and one is still painfully broken, but he doesn't have the compassion to spare. Saki takes it all in each hospital visit and therefore it's perfectly justified when Kida tears off the spared underwear which is also his own as a mark of who belongs to who. Izaya doesn't care at this point and he will when Kida shoves three bloodied salted fingers straight through Izaya's ass with no warning at all.

Which is where there are open wounds on the inside of Izaya, thrusting in and out and the salt feels uncomfortable on his fingers. A hiss of discomfort is nothing compared to when Izaya jolts up and in the moment his throat muscles look as if they're bulging when something hoarse and animalistic bubbles out of Izaya's throat. The sound is harsh and echoes in the room, forcing Horada to stop when the screaming sounds and Kida knows that the others will be looking.

So he makes a show of driving his fingers in deeper, not caring if there's more blood from the coarse salt or water mixing that is fucking cold and soaking his jeans. It doesn't matter at all as long as Izaya's scream echoes in his head with guilty dirtied satisfaction and soon enough Izaya collapses, on the verge of unconsciousness. Each movement he makes only makes the burn of salt worse and so he lies perfectly still, waiting with each thrust like a doll for Kida to get this over with.

"Get me the water bottle." Kida points to the bottle across from them for Horada to grudgingly oblige, using the saliva-coated hand to grab it and then pour the remaining contents into Izaya's anus where his fingers are, feeling the flush of lukewarm water. Quickly moving out of the way but never retracting his fingers, Kida forces Izaya's ass down and the water leaks from the inside, carrying a heavy trail of blood and the dissolved salt that comes with.

Izaya feels as if he's being split apart with each thrust of Kida's fingers in and out of him. Voice completely spent and on the verge of suffocating to death—his eyes are swimming in black spots that haven't faded for a long time now—when he's suddenly pulled up once again, Kida moving to lie on his back and away from the icy cold puddle of where he was lying in. "Ride me, Izaya-kun." the blond orders, unfazed and sharpened eyes removed of any guilt at all (so unlike the first meeting between the two, oh how they grow into monsters so quickly) and a tug on Izaya's left arm to mean _get a move on._

For all it's worth and feeling the intensity of whether or not this torture added together will kill him, the informant struggles to slide over and then drop onto Kida's cock. From him it brings out a gagged noise and while Kida's glaring Izaya finds the rush of insanity taking over when it buzzes from his fingertips that he doesn't care anymore. Doesn't care—_thrust up_—if—_impale and gasp—_he dies while Kida is already applying ice to his back and Horada's tipping his head back with a knife pressing into a cigarette burn. It just can't get any better, and he's forcing a grin of bloodied teeth as the chill starts to sink in but the fire of his skin is getting hotter and hotter. If Kida notices by the groans he's making and feeling Horada's dick against his back then it only means that he's on fire by now.

He's moving faster, harder, and clenching with what he can despite the shrill cries of pain from rubbing salt further up his ass and blood trickling from him. Kida's moans are growing louder and he's thrusting lightly when Izaya moves, bouncing up and down with every movement traveling into the cracks of his bones. And with the clench of Kida's stomach and the telltale sign of knowing he's going to come Izaya rubs him harder, uncaring that he has a slight erection he can easily will away when Kida grabs the base and jerks, making him pause and battle for air when the pain is adding up too quickly.

"Hah, ah," Kida moans into him, arching up and the ice is already melted when it digs into older knife wounds poorly bandaged. Izaya can only grin brokenly because this is riding Kida, as commanded and the tears in his eyes are purely from pain and the realization that he doesn't care if this kills him. He knows it will, so the god has to give up the throne at one point when the people no longer believe in him. "Mm—ah, haa—!" So close and Izaya keeps bouncing, breaking every last string of veins and arteries that hold him together when he's at the breaking point. His mind is screaming and raging for him to stop this right now to pull himself back together by the crumbling threads he has left.

No. "F-Fuck—ah!" Kida cries, Izaya clenching all around him and the scent of blood and death is in the air, stinging Izaya's bruised nose and all he can do is laugh. Slowly it builds from his chest, rumbling and sounding like rattling metal clanging together until it breaks from his lips when he'll never care when Kida kills him. It's the end of the revenge game and he knows that he's won. Horada behind him is only a pawn—how clever.

Now now now—Izaya brushes his own prostate by accident and feels the shiver of disgust, arching back and breaking himself instead of having Kida do it. Bones creak and pop and ache when he moves but it's too late when Kida's gasping and one hard thrust slams into him—

"Fuck!" Blinding white lights and Izaya's slide to nearly shut, coated from inside out with seminal fluid and blood, but sweating because his skin is boiling hot.

Silence. The sound, Izaya thinks, of his mind breaking.

Heavy hard pants from Izaya that rumble in his ears after he's too exhausted to laugh, feeling Kida pull him off of his penis going limp. He tumbles to the ground, too numb to feel anymore and too shattered from the inside out to be a god or human for much longer. There's punishment coming for him when Horada stamps on his chest, holding a red canister above him and maybe he imagines the shouts when hot fluid pours on him. It slips and the immediate sweet and sour scent of gasoline invades his nose and mouth, tumbling down his throat and he coughs, feeling the distant sting of the flammable liquid rubbing into his wounds.

It's all so—_perfect._

Because right beside him that's also red and small is an item that has fallen out of Horada's pocket he forgot to hear when fucking Kida. Or being raped, but since nothing matters he can't find the urge to care when the pain is too much. More importantly, there is a lighter next to his head and his dislocated left wrist easily slips out of the ropes holding him back. There's more sounds of a fight overhead and whether or not they realize is only on them when Izaya can swing his arm and pull the lighter into his grasp, forcing the momentum to make him roll several times over. Only when he's up again and finding the wall to lean against do they start to advance upon him but—the click of a lighter.

And the lone flame flickers when he sees their eyes widen in his blackening vision.

_It's all so perfect._

This time, he agrees.

So boringly tedious indeed.

* * *

_Chapter two of Tedious, oh dear. Looks like the gore wagon is reaching its destination._

_Thank you for reading._


	3. Raise the Dead

His eyes are blind. That's all Izaya can tell when black spots come so quickly and the lighter in his gasoline-soaked hand with a daunting little flame. If they move even Kida-kun would know what happens. There is gasoline spreading on the floor and they themselves are wearing flammable clothing. Which is hilarious when suddenly the predator becomes the prey in Izaya's game they don't think they're playing and that's how it's supposed to be. Now, only to be more self-aware and not falling from the broken grasp of holding on to the edge of what's supposed to be reminding him that he's above them all. Blinded by their own rage settling deep like black sludge within their chests and poisoning their thoughts as Izaya experiences no different when the gasoline tingles in the open wounds that don't know how to stop bleeding.

But since he doesn't know much anymore besides pain and the look of horror on either himself or Horada or Kida-_Masaomi's_ faces, it takes all but one cracking smile that nudges into a smirk and quickly fading into what comes after not breathing. After all, his throat has been closing up ever since being slammed down and he knows easily that his hyoid bone is on the verge of breaking if it already hasn't. Black spots confirm everything he doesn't see and the bodies standing still and erect, nervously waiting, are just parts of the game.

Lighters don't throw well, but the flame they create sends the entire building in smoke and rising flames. Apparently there are more containers of flammable things than Izaya knows so very little of.

He watches, expecting the release of death with the possible empty hope that the flames will climb higher. Kida and Horada fade from his eyes as soon as he's suffocating and choking on his closed throat, noting it better to not claw and thrash when it's all over much faster if he doesn't.

The flames rise and lick in front of his face, at a fever pitch and his skin starts to singe without the smell of cigarettes. He hears the shouts and confused yells of Horada and the other nameless pawns who took part in the pleasure of ripping Izaya's flesh apart without touching the delicate fatty tissue of his mind—it reminds him of ootoro, actually, but the defeat doesn't taste as bitterly fatty as blood tastes when it dribbles down his forehead mixed in a straying leaking strand of gasoline.

Hands are on him, pushing and pulling and his eyes are covered with cloth pulled tight. Izaya can only think that it's one last spiteful act before the flames reach him which confuses him as they haven't yet. He doesn't feel the lick and burn with the sinuous dance of his flesh being consumed by the very rage hidden behind pools of dried blood. The roof, he hears creaking and groans, unable to see anymore and fading too fast to count the seconds down to the end, is collapsing in. Giving into the claims of fire rising from the ground and the explosions that sound far too close to not injure any of the fools within.

It's the first time he doesn't shiver.

* * *

Celty receives a text from Mikado, strangely enough, forwarded from one Masaomi Kida for an address near an area she knows to be in a neighborhood of moved-out buildings and warehouses. Showing it to Shinra, she starts to hear sirens that echo from outside and the fire station streets away when they both break away from conversation. Something tells her as she pulls on her helmet and excuses herself to Shooter that there is no coincidence. Not if Mikado's message is urgent.

[Masaomi needs help, please,] is what the text reads before it shows the attachment.

By the time she mounts Shooter and they're zipping down the street, there are sirens behind her and they follow the streets she takes.

This is no accident, she's sure of this.

By the time the entire warehouse is burned to the ground with surprisingly no victims or witnesses, Celty is already racing down the streets moving the opposite way and a shadow cocoon strapped to Shooter, constantly looking back to check on the silent figure. Her fingers type on her phone held next to her while her mind is everywhere but here for once. Shooter drives for her, knowing the route to Shinra's and knowing the rider's distress enough to take over for now. Dried spots of blood dotting the seat and smearing on the back wheel when Celty knows this is going to be a long night.

Sirens flash and alarms are buzzing with vehicles whizzing by. Some passerby are standing out in the street, slack-jawed and right now she doesn't have the stomach to look at people. Because what she's seen is still burning into her mind and the smoke is only starting to billow beneath her helmet when strong emotions form and forge the tremble in her hands. At her phone she's attempting to send a text to Shinra, but words escape in trying to explain what exactly she saw and what is on the back of Shooter right now.

Celty feels her stomach twist and lurch. [I... You need to get emergency things ready.] Press _send_ when she has the urge to vomit and is now inwardly grateful for not having the need to eat. Otherwise when she arrives at a burning warehouse and smells blood in the air—not just a couple drops that accumulate on the gravel—but finding _pools_ of blood throughout the fire's grasp and all she can think is that it can't be Masaomi Kida. It just can't be.

Luckily, it's not and at the same time she stumbles upon it she's horrified. Turning away from the burning warehouse she finds a worrying blood trail that drags down away from the firemen and paramedics, making sure herself to stay away from them and reluctantly follows. Her shoulders tremble the entire time and there are times she wants to express herself by shrieking or saltwater trails or however she feels when frustration and horror mix like they do when she sees it. Finds the origin of the blood on the ground and she almost wants to throw up because the mangled flesh and gore with bright wide eyes is the worst thing she's ever seen.

She never wants to see Masaomi Kida covered in blood and holding what looks like the missing informant who has been blindfolded and _drenched_ in blood. It is a sight she regrets seeing because she freezes on the spot and stands there with horror rooting her to the ground after stumbling upon them. The blond who is still alive looks up, eyes growing even wider if possible and she realizes that he's seen worse things than her and it's enough motivation to force her forward.

"Get him out of here, please," he asks hoarsely, offering the limp informant—oh no no no no it's actually him—"I can't stop the bleeding. Just go." Fear and pity in his eyes Celty takes it that he is genuinely concerned for Izaya despite his own shaking and if she takes another second to see who this is she may have to turn the other way because—"G-Go! Hurry!" And with little to do but nod and no time to make a text, Celty's shadows emerge from the ground and wrap around the informant, careful not to include the blond as well and he disappears running in the opposite direction when the informant is completely covered.

Now she's on Shooter and a text message dings on her phone but there's simply no time to lose. Even though it's a text asking what's wrong and who's hurt she finds the will to write two words before turning down the street and blazing the path remaining, trying to forget the permanent reek of dried blood and a broken body. Fingers trembling she knows the feeling of a long night creeping up and sticky in the dark smoke caught in her throat.

[Izaya Orihara.]

Celty rushes in with Izaya faster than Shinra can greet her at the door, already helmet flying off from the force of when she moves in and nearly breaks the door open. The black ball surrounding her passenger and holding in the blood dissipates on the couch when it's already covered in towels, dropping what is left of the informant on the couch and for a moment the room stops. Time comes to a slamming halt as Shinra's eyes widen and in the better lighting of their apartment, Celty has the urge to vomit even more than ever. Shinra, on the other hand, is calmly speechless, assessing the damage in several moments of stunned silence that equivocate to treating Izaya's various injuries.

"Celty, dearest," Shinra sounds like Celty when she thinks she sees a ghost, "would you mind getting a tub of water for me? Lukewarm, please. And sedatives." He's not thinking at all, relying on basic information that comes to mind for each assessment of wounds. Possible broken arm with a shoddy cast, broken fingers on both hands (missing _fingernails_, he may as well add) and open wounds everywhere. The towels are already soaking in large amounts of blood which Shinra also finds interesting as even the gaping wound he can see from underneath Izaya's sleeve over his bruised shoulders isn't bleeding as much as it's supposed to do.

Coagulants. His eyes narrow when he can see the thickened state of the oozing blood, noting dehydration with the papery feel of Izaya's warmed skin. For some reason he feels somewhat slick with a foul sweet-sour reek, reminding him of—gasoline. And his fingers clench into his palms when he uses a towel to wipe away slick patches of the clear fluid, confirming that the marks of singed skin on Izaya with high-rising patterns are there because he was _doused_ in gasoline. Which means, Shinra sighs to himself and pulls one of the clear buckets to the side of the couch, forcing himself to be aware that he's going to have to induce vomiting _somehow_ in the mess that is Izaya.

[A little at a time.] Celty's PDA reads in his face, handing the medications to Shinra and the packets for needles that go with, setting the container of water on the ground. [Do you need anything else?] For once Shinra is grateful that Celty is here, because she's his reason he's keeping his head straight and not clouding over with horror from the state of Izaya.

"I need to induce vomiting." He doesn't say that it's to make sure Izaya hasn't swallowed blood and gasoline with whatever else is in his system. "But from the bruised ribs and throat where his larynx can collapse, it's a hard decision to make." Looking again he knows that vomiting isn't an option, so instead he opts for draining Izaya's stomach instead. "Celty, my beloved, I need to drain his stomach. Will you help set up the guest room for me?" He never needs to look up and see her nod when she puts a hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently and then soft footsteps as she prepares the guest room and other equipment. They work efficiently as a team and Shinra will never know how to express gratitude for his beloved in moments like these.

While Celty prepares the room and moves in the necessary items for other medical procedures, Shinra swipes a patch of skin on Izaya's right arm with rubbing alcohol, pressing hard to remove the gasoline and dirt stains that turn out to be fingerprint bruises. Containing the frustration and the anger digging into his palms, Shinra aligns the needle and presses in, reaching the vein and watching for any signs of discomfort from Izaya while he injects the anesthetic. With this he knows that it's impossible for Izaya to wake up any time soon, and figures for the best he doesn't need to. The total reach of torture to his mind—Shinra has no idea where to begin on what Izaya has possibly suffered.

He sets to cleaning out wounds with the lukewarm water and a hand towel, cleaning them out until the sickly gleam from gasoline is free and the wounds aren't as red or dripping with pus and infection. Most of them are clean and he suspects the use of antibiotics as a cruel trick, but can't confirm otherwise for the festering ones that purple and ooze enough times to change several towels.

All the while he reminds himself that he's wearing gloves but the feel of Izaya's blood on his hands, holding a fate he's not sure he can keep, doesn't wash out with the gloves coming off.

[I'll take him in.] Celty's PDA come to his face again, turning to shiver at the body on the sofa and stifle it with the straightening of her spine. Shinra watches the shadows form a protective coat around Izaya, leaving the blood staining the towels and waits with baited breath as Celty moves, swallowing Izaya whole with shadows. In a way—he's not currently thinking, really—it's too fitting for watching the hollows of teetering over the edge of life and death when he watches Izaya disappear. It's only temporary, he reassures himself with the shudder that isn't supposed to be there and crawling down his spine. Death is permanent, however.

In this situation it seems a bit too tangible to rid himself of the sour taste, Celty disappearing into the guest room laid out for Izaya in the special qualities of his case while Shinra's feet root to the ground, eyes on bloodstained towels. All over his couch, wondering numbly if the bloodstains will come out if the towels (three layers high and never warm enough) soak through to the white bones of the sofa. Shaking his head he wills himself to move, gathering the towels and folding carefully over the blood that stains his gloves, disposing them in a laundry basket down the hall before heading to the guest room. Larger strides growing faster with impatience and before he realizes he's inside the guest room, equipment set and an IV needle pulled free of the plastic cover to take the already pricked arm, sliding the needle in without watching for nothing.

Okay. Deep breath in. He can do this. IV pole standing by, wheeled over by Celty and a gentle touch to his shoulder that doesn't feel real. Connect the needle standing from Izaya's unbroken elbow to the IV line, saline solution bag already hung and one end begins the tube, fastening to the end of the bag. There is blood soaking the coverings of the bed Celty must have added as a precaution and at this rate Shinra knows he needs a donor when Izaya's body in this state cannot keep himself alive. Blood type—Shinra knows this he knows these things off the top of his head and when he looks at Izaya all he can see is clotting platelets turning brighter with oozing wounds.

"Celty," Shinra speaks, aware that she's been listening from the counter top behind him across the room, never pausing in her work. "Would you get Shizuo? Ask him if I could call a favor from him." He accepts that she's going to ask and doesn't spare the time in answering the deserved curiosity—after all she's done, especially now—and informs her while he begins the process of bandaging all the open wounds to stem the bleeding. It's everywhere, he sees the red sea form on the bed of a tiny body and wonders if this Izaya is the same or _will_ be the same as before (no, that's silly) and maybe it's the best not to answer that.

"I need to give Izaya a blood transfusion. We've got about fifteen minutes before he enters a critical state. Shizuo has a compatible blood type and I don't have any more. Just do what you can to get him here as fast as you can." Neglect to mention that perhaps he's exaggerating the time in the worst way when looking at Izaya it doesn't look like he has five minutes. Celty doesn't need any more stress, he decides. Izaya can't die when he's here.

The click of the door and footsteps running down the stairs (the neigh of a horse in the background) shows how much she loves him. Back to Izaya, he sighs, when the sterilized cotton swab stings and brings forth more blood before he can tightly wrap the bandages needed, adding an extra layer or two with careful fingers and changing his gloves when they're too sticky with blood to focus on not letting his fingers tremble. They never do when he focuses on his work, but when he hears his cellphone in his pocket chime he slips and faltering isn't the technique of steady hands and fingers like scalpels when he cuts away all the infection without a blink. This is his friend he is operating on.

Friends never shake his hands lying beneath his fingers dying from a simple stitching.

But Izaya always haunts his sleep whenever he comes by. Shinra wonders if there's a day he'll forget to come one day. Or be too broken to be put back together again. Which he doesn't ever try to think of considering the possibilities outweighing the needs of one over the needs of many and this is too complicated to discuss. Celty would know much more than him, and perhaps when they can get a moment of surface air to pretend everything is alright when the day that actually happens is further away now than it has been.

"Come on, come on," attaching cords sticking to the bare spots on Izaya's chest (fingers aren't an option) he sets up the heart monitor, watching the unstable beat. "Come on, Izaya. You're going to be fine, just stay with me." he murmurs mainly to himself in the unfamiliarity of being alone in the conversation of to the almost dead. The rise and fall of Izaya's chest is not as comforting as it is meant to be but enough to grasp for when Shinra finds himself staring at the monitor, waiting for the heart rate to climb back from the deficit of staying dead for too long. The oxygen setup comes next as a wary precaution, attaching the mask to Izaya's face while he never wakes. At least he can distract himself with the more unsettling task of preparing the setup for draining Izaya's stomach. One long hollow needle, connected by another tube to a container. There isn't much time for concern and he has the practice from too many times of Izaya coughing up lungs from vending machine-shaped bruises and broken ribs.

"It's going to hurt," Shinra starts, wiping down the clear skin soon to be pierced with the needle with a numbing agent, carefully angling around a particularly nasty bruise and an interesting indent of what looks like teeth. Not now, he reminds himself. "But you already knew that. You knew anything would hurt when you got yourself into where you've been for two weeks." There is, Shinra acknowledges as fact, very little Izaya doesn't know. At the back of his mind he wonders if the same courtesy of blatant disregard extends to the same condition as Izaya possibly not living in the next five to ten minutes. Without meaning to digress further Shinra pierces the flesh, slowly sliding in and feeling the puncture of Izaya's stomach as a resistance soon giving to the sharp press of the needle.

It's in, and turning a switch to release the clasp from the inside tubing mechanism, Izaya's stomach starts to drain. Shinra notes the clear color of a fluid draining, knowing it not to be from regular body processes but the sweetly sour stench of gasoline that salts that back of his throat in nauseous discomfort. More fluid fills the large container as the seconds tick by, one hand resting on Izaya's bruised shoulder while the other keeps the needle in place, braced to not move or Izaya suffers more serious consequences from accidental irritation. Nothing happens throughout the steady beeping of the heart monitor between watching Izaya's sleeping face to the fingers gently brushing a bruised shoulder.

About one gallon later, Shinra pulls the needle and bandages the spot. His phone buzzes in his pocket, but the silence is heavy ringing in his ears. All he can think about is the suspiciously large amount of clear fluid separating from blood. The density differences make it easy to tell that the fluid is not from inflamed lining of his stomach, but rather flammable gasoline forcefully consumed. The thought is chilling, but as a doctor he manages to keep his composure for a little longer, attending to the long list of preparing for a night to last.

"What do you want me to do?" Shizuo rubs his eyes, clearly annoyed at having been woken up and fingers twitching with the itch for a cigarette as heavy anxiety slips into his bloodstream. Celty stands, slightly exasperated and confused and itching to want to just speak to convey why her entire body is trembling in the confines of her suit. In his state of disoriented tiredness, Shizuo never notices that her fingers slip when she types, herself thankful for the auto correct function.

[Shinra needs a blood transfusion right now and I'll explain just _please_ tell me you can.] She thrusts the screen into his groggy eyes, apologizing inwardly with a cringe when she hears Shizuo growl softly and turn his eyes away to avoid the burning glare of the screen's brightness. Stars blink in his eyes and Celty can see the confusion but there's simply no time to be asking questions—just hurry, Shizuo, she can't explain right now and—she wonders if being human includes this flighty lighthearted pounding sensation throughout her entire body in hollow echoes of adrenaline rush when the smoke of her helmet is pouring out in heavy billows.

Shizuo narrows his eyes, leaning against the door frame and glancing at Celty curiously. "Fine, but as long as he's not experimenting on me." There is much more he wants to ask like why him and why is it so important but Celty grabs his wrist, pulling him out the door and they take off nearly before he can lock the door to his apartment. In pajamas he doesn't necessarily care what he looks like out in public, feeling the warm haze of stale summer air and slowly waking up to sitting on Shooter before Celty takes off, faster than he has ever seen before. So it must be an emergency, he decides, as shadows wrap around his head to form a helmet which he never finds necessary if he's going to let his brain rot at Shinra's house with all of his stupid rantings.

"What's going on, Celty?" Shizuo raises his voice and the surroundings blurring in city lights as fast-moving images pass by them too quickly to grasp sight of. "Why does Shinra need my blood?" And who exactly is this for although he's sure if Celty can't answer him now then it must be important enough to exert some force of patience. Being too sleep-docile to complain or demand an answer when Celty is clearly nervous he falls silent after a while, never hearing from her once the entire ride to Shinra's apartment across town. It feels like only minutes have passed once they arrive and just as soon as they do Shizuo finds himself behind Celty who races up the stairs, quietly with her shadows bouncing and Shizuo's loud steps of keeping up with her like the rising pulse of his own temper flaring as his shoes clang against the ground. Slippers, really, but the details aren't important.

They arrive at the door, Celty swinging it open and typing quickly to someone when she presses the send button and it's not for Shizuo. He thinks he hears a faint buzzing sound of a phone and decides to ignore it, waiting in a somewhat awkward position of still being sleep-blind and muted to his surroundings but blood starting to rush under his skin. "So, what's the big deal?" he mutters louder this time, noticing Celty never looks up at him from her phone—that's not a habit of hers as she hates being rude—and when she finally looks at him her helmet is already tumbling off by the jerk of her head upward.

[Just don't freak out right now. Shinra needs you to donate some blood because...] she trails off in realizing that mentioning Izaya's name won't do any more for Izaya than what hasn't already been done. [Shinra has a patient that's very important and you're the only one he knows that has a blood type that is compatible, so he really needs you to donate some right now. I don't know how much time we have left.] The last words are ominous even if they are forced into Shizuo's face, making his brows furrow once again as he squints to read the letters and blinks to clear the haze from his eyes. More awake now his lips snap on his teeth, moving from his bottom lip to catch on his front teeth when he's anxious or bothered by something.

"Okay..." Shizuo blinks, teeth grazing on the flesh of his lip and for once he doesn't bite through this time. Yet, that is. "So what do you want me to do? Sit somewhere?" Celty means to type an answer, but the buzz of her PDA in her hands startles her into nearly dropping the object, missing heart leaping in her chest in horror before she catches it and doesn't recover fully then.

[Okay, Just wait right here. Shinra will be out to draw your blood for you.] Celty types quickly, spelling mistakes corrected with her bouncing fingers splattering all over the keyboard in the nervous twitches that Shizuo is starting to notice all too well. [Thank you, Shizuo. Thank you for this.] And he hears a door from down the hall click open, footsteps coming out and Celty turns to the source, glancing back at Shizuo and nodding before she brushes by Shinra as he approaches with a strange contraption at his side.

"Hey there." Shinra greets tiredly, not in the mood to ramble a bit about how Celty looks nervous and how much he wants to calm her down with her in his arms, holding her tightly until she can breathe easily when she's with him. But for now Shizuo isn't amused and he has an emergency to attend to, even if Celty is his number one priority. "Just sit down on the couch," Shinra motions to the clean white, following Shizuo who moves to sit. "And I'll just take some blood from you. Simple as that." At this time Shizuo questions silently where Celty has gone to and what the air of rush is in the air for, settling with an ashy taste that has the same texture of crumpled ceilings and broken objects—those are accidents and he does not need to think of these things now—and it bothers him immensely. He still barely knows what's going on.

"Hold your arm out." Shinra taps him when Shizuo finds himself spacing out, blaming it on the sleepiness and the daze of wanting a cigarette to flush his system with nicotine. A rubber band ties around his upper arm, pulling tightly and then the cool feeling of alcohol is on his arm, almost humoring himself with the thought of the skin breaking the needle Shinra pulls from his pocket and unwraps from plastic when it is so tiny it doesn't look like it can do much. Aligning the needle Shinra slowly pushes into the vein, twisting a cap at the end of it while Shizuo looks vaguely disinterested from the dull sting of skin breaking. The thing at Shinra's side from earlier is in his lap and one hand moves to grab one part of tubing and twists it into the opening where the needle's hollow chamber ends. From there Shizuo can see the tubing wind into some sort of bag, which he guesses is what Shinra is using to collect the blood swelling in the hollow of the needle.

Shinra's fingers twist the switch again on the needle, releasing the flow of blood that drains into the bag held by his other hand. Shizuo holds the needle in place, watching as the red fluid quickly drains from his arm and almost fascinated and disgusted as it moves quickly into filling the bag as slowly as it does. The thought of who his monster blood is going to starts to fester in his mind, knocking against his skull but he assumes if Celty doesn't tell him then it must be an important person to either her or Shinra, which he finds he has no assumptions to conclude to but why the person is stupid enough to need a transfusion at this hour.

"How are you doing?" Shinra asks part of the way in, bag filling with blood and Shizuo deciding to look away from the drain in his arm. "Any dizziness at all? I know dearest Celty must have woken you up abruptly, so let me know when you feel dizzy or lightheaded." Shinra says, focusing his voice into a quiet tone just above a murmur and it definitely piques Shizuo's interest, but then again, so does the prospect of sleep.

"Fine," Shizuo answers absently, making an entryway for the silence between them to fluctuate into the dull thickness of the room's atmosphere weighing in on everyone nearby, though Shizuo can't quite name what the feeling is even if it seems vaguely familiar. Reprimanding, almost, and reminiscent of not-so-fond memories from a childhood of regretting too much for being alive. As the silence stretches on his eyes are closing for him and he snaps them open at times, feeling the barest sensation of a fuzzy head and empty thoughts from the amount of blood already donated, more than halfway filling the bag.

Moments tick by, Shizuo craving sleep now more than nicotine but the irking feeling that tonight is going to be more than just a favor for Shinra starts to scratch at the inside of his skull again. The bag, already filling to the top, weighs down in Shinra's hand before the doctor reaches out to stop the flow of blood with the closing of the tube. The tube pops from the blood bag, Shinra filling the last remaining droplets in before detaching it and using a plastic seal imprinted on the bag to seal it. Then his hands are pulling the rubber band free and disconnecting the tube from the needle to be put on some white towel Shizuo hasn't noticed on the floor. A bandage over a cotton ball goes on the incision point of his elbow, Shinra taking the blood and barely catching the questioning glance of _what is going on here_ when it's hard enough to stay focused as is.

"I'll get you a snack, Shizuo. Don't move around for a little bit." Shinra speaks, eyes distant even if Shizuo catches them. Sitting on the couch he can feel his head spinning with sleep attempting to take over again, nodding as Shinra is already gone and the equipment disappears with him. The open and shut of the fridge has Shinra coming back, proffering a carton of juice which Shizuo hasn't realized that Shinra has, and an energy bar dropping into Shizuo's open hand. "I need to go monitor the blood transfer, so my darling Celty will be out in a minute." Shinra's voice trembles in the way that doesn't go unnoticed. Shizuo plunges the straw in the foil-covered top, unamused with the skirting around the subject. "Thanks for this, Shizuo." he excuses himself and it's only seconds later when he disappears.

Glancing at the energy bar Shizuo hears the faint sounds of conversation in the other room, crinkling the annoying wrapper with his fingers while tossing it down the couch, uninterested in the health aspect. The juice box isn't as bad with apple juice, sucking down a couple gulps and tonguing the straw instead of a cigarette when he has neither cigarettes or a lighter. In Shinra's apartment he knows Celty will be angry if she finds out. But the curiosity is only growing at a faster rate with Shizuo's silence, eyes starting to close and listening to dull murmurs before it's hopeless to amuse himself with the straw in an empty carton. Leaving it on the coffee table in front of him Shizuo slips his body onto the couch, lying his head on the arm and attempting to sort out his thoughts.

When Celty emerges it's a good thirty minutes later, Shinra tending to the last of Izaya's blood transfusion with not as heavy breaths from Shinra dotting the seconds held in and hitching if a sign of danger spikes on the monitor. Izaya's already looking better from what she watches, covered in blankets and color returning to him for a deathly pale to a less deathly pale and more sickly than usual. The last time she remembers the same image must be when Izaya's ribs had been broken by Shizuo, suffocating in every step to their apartment and by the time he arrives unannounced he passes out on Shinra. It takes three days, she remembers, for Izaya to breathe on his own again after the threat of a collapsed lung.

Which reminds her that—strangely enough—Shizuo had asked where Izaya was each day of being at her apartment. Looking over to him when her PDA returns to her sleeve, she ponders over what to say as Shizuo is lying on the couch, sound asleep.

The least she can do is give him some blankets and a pillow to sleep on.

* * *

_Nya, so tired of writing so much. Oh well, at least I enjoy it. _

_Thank you for reading._


	4. Speaking Silence

Izaya looks better, although tucked carefully beneath layers and layers of blankets despite the slight fever, pulling a couple back but more to stabilize the fragile bones in his legs and arms from repeated abuses. His left arm—Shinra can't say for himself that it's better than before. The bones he knows are smashed to near pieces with a messy break of the humerus and fragments infecting the skin for days of reopening the wound with significant marks of knives drawing diagrams to connect the pain he must have been in. Everything else comes as a long haul of working to keep Izaya alive, painkillers and antibiotics administered after the flush of whatever coagulant sedative out of his system and his functions begin to regulate. The drug Shinra isn't sure he knows the name of, but he knows that it happens to be more unusual and a harder to find around Ikebukuro. Something to keep in mind for later when needed.

Even if he's stable for now after a good hour or two of fighting for his life, Shinra isn't sure if Izaya will pull through. Going from the amount of blood lost he has already taken two donations from Shizuo who can't possibly give any more in one night, passed out on the sofa and Celty probably is taking him home by now when it's been a long night for everyone. Shinra meticulously tapes broken fingers and casts into place, careful of weak points of not quite broken but dangerously teetering edges of fractures, going by the swollen appearances of blemished skin and knowing that a scan would be more beneficial. Maybe in the morning as right now Izaya is too weak and his condition widely unknown to be up for blood tests and other routine things in this sort of situation.

Okay, breathe. Count the facts, Shinra knows this in attempts of bringing focus back to his tired eyes he's been rubbing for the past hour now. Eleven at night and beginning to feel tired now that the rush of adrenaline and the immediate danger have passed quietly into fizzling ends. To be fair he's more than surprised that Izaya is still alive for this long. Shakily taking breaths and an oxygen mask covering his face, but alive.

One. His left arm may be unable to heal completely from the damage caused by a heavy blunt object. The bones and muscles have been next to obliterated and taunted with knife wounds and salt. A lot of flushing cleans out the beginnings of an infection and the salt which takes two buckets of filling to clean out. His ankle suffers a fate almost as bad with the twisted joint bruised and swollen too much to be normal.

Two. His right eye is damaged from a cut near the iris. Dangerous, but not immediately fatal to his sight. A coinciding mark beneath the eye drawing to his ear confirms the presence of a knife.

Three. His hands may be permanently ruined by being impaled repeatedly. There are marks in his feet that have been flushed and poorly bandaged as well, but Shinra knows the fine motor skills will need rehabilitation.

Four. Swollen skull due to excessive force applied, leaving open wounds festering in the back where blood mats Izaya's hair. Suspected moderate to severe concussion.

Five. Izaya's arms, bruised black and purple, have been dislocated several times. If he's able to use them again, Shinra counts him as lucky. The trauma to them is severe enough combined with the ligament damage sustained over periods of time.

Six. Stab wounds, cigarette marks, and gasoline. Covering almost every patch of skin bruised or not there are usually shallow ones, but some deeper ones he finds are close to the left arm and his hands and feet. Over his collarbone are repeated cigarette burns trailing to the back of his neck, pairing with fingernail scars.

Seven. Raped repeatedly, going by the anal fissures Shinra finds in an unlucky twist of seeing spots of blood from between his thighs. Over patching up the cuts on Izaya's groin he has to find firsthand that repeated bruising all over his lower body matches up with signs of repeated rape. The cuts on the inside, however, are far more sinister and Shinra wars with himself as to whether or not he should conclude that knives are used to create the same injuries.

Eight. Severe dehydration and signs of malnutrition mean that Izaya's torture methods did not end with physical and mental anguish. At this rate with a high fever Shinra has extra duty of making sure Izaya stays in the constant balance of hanging onto life.

Nine. There are bruises covering ninety-four percent of his entire body, from blunt-force trauma to rope markings around his wrists and legs. It gets even worse with the bruised ribs Izaya has, making it harder to breathe already. His throat is what worries Shinra the most—dotted in shades from purple to yellow and marks of hands all over it. The muscles are clearly exhausted at this point and if Izaya regains his voice it's going to be a long hard process and plenty of _ifs_ to motivate Shinra into believing that the informant can.

Ten. Whatever damage Izaya has suffered, he will never be the same again.

Blood pressure, heart rate, everything looks normal. Anger quietly seething beneath his skin, frustrated and angry beneath fingers of carefully cradling Izaya's chin to inspect his bruised jaw, marking the pattern as something blunt like a shoe. Shinra can taste the blood in his mouth before he realizes he's biting through his tongue when his teeth grind together, marking the notes in his cellphone to write down for a file's storage. Celty's not here to see what he sees and it's a good thing because there isn't anything that's not ugly when jutting out like sore thumbs from bruises to bite marks and broken bones. Empty little things, ripping skin in blood lust passion for the point of making them hurt. Nothing fatal that he knows of besides the ripping and internal bleeding from where Izaya has been dehumanized and made to suffer.

His vocal cords are severely damaged. So much usage for bruising muscles that keep getting re-injured, throbbing with the lower temperature of a fever wrecking havoc on Izaya's compromised immune system. Shinra can tell from the swelling that swallowing is immensely painful and the IV dosage of painkillers can only do so much without killing him. At least he's quiet now, sleeping on a pillow and still dirty with sweat and blood in his hair and other places Shinra doesn't reach quite yet, evidence still lingering for photographic uses which Shinra knows as to help Izaya. Though helping him—he's not sure what to do. Celty is outside the door, with Shizuo and they have been silent for a while now as Shinra continuously checks on Izaya, waiting for the brighter part of the situation to emerge. For Izaya to show he's going to make it through the night.

It's not the same Izaya he knows, seeing all the marks and remembering all the internal damage attesting to protesting death curling in on himself like a fist raised as a mocking reminder to whoever has done this that they never can win. In a way Shinra can find some reason to smile bitterly, knowing Izaya would never give in to anything thrown at him. Limp back to him yes, but never to break apart no matter the pain and suffering—the scuffle with Shizuo that Shinra knows of from behind flashing warning light red eyes that whenever they speak of Shizuo, it used to hurt. Now it's the mix of wanting a drink to forget that this is happening and the smaller things like Shizuo never _knowing_ in a time like this, Shina doubts it's at all beneficial.

"What happened to you, Izaya?" Shinra murmurs under his breath, fingers slipping under his glasses to rub his eyes again. The bright light of the guest room still burns into his corneas as a safety precaution and not enough yellow tape to warrant this. He knows what happened and he knows it burning into the flesh of his brain as something that can't be washed away like gasoline and salty blood reacting in bursting platelets if Shizuo's blood doesn't match and he know sit does but he waits still—tired. Exhausted mentally and physically running up the stretch of the mile uphill refusing to fall back down and lie in the mud. "Who did this to you, huh?" Shinra brushes bloodied hair out of Izaya's face, avoiding the stinging flesh of a knife mark trailing into his hairline crusted and scabbing over with a butterfly bandage to hold it shut.

The oxygen mask hums with the flowing air, feeding into Izaya's parted lips cracked and broken even if smoothed over with some Vaseline to prevent any further irritation. As gently fixed and patched—except for the arm, Shinra doesn't really know for that one—Izaya still looks as broken as he came in, like a toy pulled apart and set on fire with the burns on his skin no matter the depth of degrees in what happened to end like this.

Shinra thinks he should tell Shizuo.

* * *

Morning comes like a careful tentative venture into the unknown territory of Shinra deeming Izaya stable enough for more blood tests and surgery. Shizuo's at home courtesy of Celty, having apparently fallen asleep on the sofa and too tired to wake up again. The situation for him is carefully avoided and Shinra bites his tongue in a new habit of wondering what he's supposed to say in these things while also agreeing that he should wait for Izaya to wake up first. Though the first thing on his mind is the surgery for cleaning up the bone fragments in Izaya's left arm so they can't get any more infected in the tissue. The first heavy dose of anesthetic for Izaya makes Shinra nervous despite carefully watching his readings as they began to drop in accordance for the drugs and it takes Celty being there with him, hand on his shoulder squeezing gently and a silent _it's okay_ to finally let the anesthetic run its course.

Surgery isn't too bad, slicing open the wounded skin and extracting bits of bone while making a point to keep the anesthetic flowing, since this would hurt more than it should and if Izaya is to wake—ridiculous. He's completely out cold, has been since last night and it's seven in the morning when he's having doubts. Celty lets Shizuo sleep, watching documentaries on the television but on call like a hospital nurse, her preference, if anything goes wrong. An hour passes and Shinra's almost done, nausea absent from his stomach when he's used to these sorts of sights of the human body in various states of wear and tear. Nothing unusual, nothing new. The only thing that makes it worse is that it's Izaya and the neck brace he puts around the bandaged bruised throat is that Izaya has a risk of choking anytime should his throat collapse.

Somewhere around ten in the morning Shinra finishes the surgery, more tired than he has felt in nights of forgoing sleep for emergency calls. With Izaya recovering back in the guest room he can have the morning to accept an embrace from Celty and let her make him a cup of tea. Jasmine, since it's the scent that reminds him of her and even if she flushes in response to when he tells her this he knows she's flattered and gives a smile, reassuring more for himself. Celty does bring up the question though—what about Shizuo? And it's a good point because moving on from here especially with Shizuo's involvement means figuring out what to say and do.

"Well," Shinra feels the scratch of having not shaved for a day on his chin, disliking the feel rubbing against his fingers and resolving to shave soon. "We can let him know when he wakes up that his blood went to Izaya and his archenemy is closer to death than he ever has been." Lack of sleep puts him in bitter mood and Celty shoots him a look, typing on her PDA with a heavily unamused air.

[That's the problem. You know Shizuo hates Izaya.] Celty types, earning an odd look from Shinra when his brain is starting to make _too_ much sense in reading that _what about Izaya_ part but since it doesn't necessarily matter when Izaya is asleep, it's better to stash the thought away and just keep moving. Celty types again in return for his silence. [So we need to figure out something.]

He sips from the tea, considering it. "Or we can tell him directly if he really wants to know. You or I can warn him, although I would prefer if you did my dearest Celty, as you're closer to him than I am." Shinra sees the shrug in her shoulders and he isn't really hungry for anything at all, feeling the emptiness of his stomach and deciding to just let breakfast slide when confronted with a mutilated friend.

Tap, tap, tap. [I'll go out with him today for a little while and see if he cares. But just prepare if he does come back, that things might go bad.] Celty feels Shinra reaching for her hand, not bothering to pull away when his fingers slip through hers in a silent gesture and he nods, tightening his grip on her. She gives a gentle squeeze in reply, as it's all she can do.

Recuperating is never something Izaya plans on doing, usually forgoing his medications for the dumbest of excuses or selling painkillers on whatever market just for a small profit. At least this time Shinra can find the gallows humor in having Izaya completely immobilized, but the chuckle that wants to bubble up doesn't last much longer. Even if Izaya's still asleep and probably will be for a while, he can keep the pain medications and oxygen flowing, making sure that the last breath Izaya takes is not on his watch no matter what it takes. So far it's going well with constant checking in, having to fix a nutrition IV in combination with the saline solution to help his body repair itself. The least he can do, seeing as only Izaya decides the outcome and Shinra will be damned to and back from Hell if he doesn't attempt to try.

It's a little harder than expected, watching his friend suck oxygen from a mask and sometimes the shivers come and go like Izaya's moods. Shinra has to watch for elevated body temperature due to Izaya's fever still ravaging while he's down and fighting to stay alive. Really it isn't fair at all if Izaya's dealing with more than enough, having a fever keep him unconsciously shivering or sweating. Sometimes both and the fight of layering blankets or peeling them off becomes an interesting struggle. The entire time Celty is away, talking with Shizuo as she surely knows how to handle more delicate situations when Shizuo is a constantly-lit fuse running on dynamite packed into more dynamite and plenty of damage.

So far Izaya is better than worse from the previous night, fever still refusing to budge despite the medications balancing on dangerous for the cocktail in the informant's bloodstream. Still with the collapsed throat Shinra has to keep Izaya in a neck brace, keeping the full mouth and nose mask on for the time being instead of a nasal cannula. Shinra carefully monitors his progress, receiving updates once in a while from Celty and trying to feel somewhat normal watching television.

Only then does it circle the drain, because on TV there is a news coverage of a fire in a warehouse in the west district of Ikebukuro with the camera panning on burned blood staining the ground. Clips from the night before light up in flames as the camera follows the flash of fire, flames climbing higher and a reporter stating that there are possible suspects who escaped from the building. But by the intensity of the fire and the many attempts by the firefighters to put it out connections start to click in his head—gasoline fire. Proving true when the building explodes—Shinra cringes, looking away and muting the television to catch himself.

And gasoline...

_Izaya._

Reaching for his phone he pulls up Celty's number, tapping a text for her in the consideration of the bitter thoughts swarming his skull with the urge to go check on his findings for Izaya's wounds. Surely there's something not right here (if it's worth knowing is another hint left alone) and he wants to know what Celty does, since they haven't spoken much at all since she left. [_Hey, Celty, there's news coverage of a warehouse fire in west Ikebukuro. Could that be what you left to last night?_] Pressing send doesn't offer any relief and neither do the next ten minutes of silence that follow.

He's on the edge, tapping his fingers almost nervously but calm and composed like a doctor is meant to be. Finally his phone rings with a buzz, knowing it's Celty who texts him because the ringtone is just for her. Anxiety means even with fingers that don't tremble he doesn't understand when he reads the message over and over the first few times. [I think I'm going to be gone for a couple days, Shinra. There's a problem with Shizuo.] It doesn't make any sense and surely enough he asks why, confused as to why his beloved is suddenly speaking of disappearing for a couple days and what does it have to do with a fire in the west district? There has to be an explanation and waiting is even longer than typing.

[Shizuo's been charged with arson. Someone framed him for the warehouse fire.]

His phone drops and he forgets to read the last part.

[I need to help him clear his name. Don't tell anyone anything.]

The name on the television screen confirms it: _Shizuo Heiwajima, wanted for suspected arson in the west district of Ikebukuro_—which makes no sense, Shinra questions it in the silence of his apartment. Because there's no way possible Shizuo would set something on fire if he's angry with something—he destroys things, sure, but setting fire to a building? And _killing_ people? That—it doesn't make any sense at all. Shinra bends to retrieve his phone from the ground, reading the last message sent by Celty and accepting it with the burden of a sigh. So this is more involved than he actually knows, but as to include Shizuo in this as well? Celty risks it when she goes at Mikado's request to the burning buildings, but she would've said something, right?

Of course she would. Always. [_Alright, my dearest Celty. I'm not sure how that's even possible, but whatever it takes. Do you need anything?_] Shinra types back, turning off the television in favor of keeping his sanity for one morning. He has records to go over, anyway, from comparing data to why and how Izaya is in the same warehouse that burns to the ground on the camera footage rolling in his thoughts.

His phone buzzes in the time it takes to get up and make his way to the guest room where Izaya is hopefully still alive. Of course he is—what is he thinking? [I don't know what's going on. But right now I can't say where I'm at, and if anyone comes for you, let me know immediately.] Celty's text is as cryptic as the ones before, leaving Shinra with a heavier sort of weight resting in his chest as soon as he pushes into the guest room, clicking the door shut behind him. Deciding that staring at the blank screen after he reads the message isn't good for his aching heart of missing Celty, Shinra pockets his phone in favor of retrieving patient files, thickening with each day's report to be put into his laptop.

"Well, I think I'm starting to know what's going on." Shinra remarks to the still patient, lying in the cot without any knowledge of the world still turning around him. "As for you, Izaya," glancing through files and photographs noted in his phone, they pale in the ugly stages of healing that begin to process now out of immediate danger. Exhausting himself is a dangerous possibility and for which Shinra makes sure to keep the nutrients at hand, knowing to leave the feeding tube alone until the lining of the stomach settles and Izaya is less likely to be in pain. "No one knows what happened to you. Hard to believe, isn't it?" No answer, but it's alright since Shinra realizes voicing his own thoughts aloud without an answer is the only way to calm the thoughts in his head in these sorts of situations. Not a bad thing, just sometimes a little habitually lonely.

The readings, on the other hand, look good. For surviving the night Shinra is already relieved, knowing only twenty-four hours remain until Izaya can be out of secured watch for any dramatic signs of vitals decreasing to organ failure. Highly unlikely, but still worth the concern of keeping watch for a little longer. Bruises darkening on the flesh of Izaya's throat he looks even worse despite the regular stages of healing, skin turning blackish purple with the darkening of the bruises scattered on nearly every inch of available skin. Oxygen mask still applied to Izaya's bruised face Shinra can see the damage without having to remove the blanket covering Izaya. Enough has been done—he doesn't need to convince himself any further that the damage is real. The more important questions like who or why haven't been answered yet and for the same reason Shinra feels that they won't be answered for a long time.

Makes sense, almost.

Without waiting for Celty's next text and deciding not to bother her (for now, saving the energy to bombard her with texts the moment she can respond sometime in the future) Shinra sets to work of checking bandages, all clean and white with heavy layers beneath that need changing from the heavy bleeding of the night before.

A pair of surgical scissors, however, feels small and empty in his hands when starting the first snips on an arm bandage, working on sealing the skin and creating a flexible cast for Izaya's entire left arm after the wounds close. Splints already in place he works around them, cutting carefully and making sure not to aggravate any crusting or caking wounds with the ginger tugs of cloth coming undone from the binding of dried blood to skin. First comes the rougher tugs that Shinra has to almost catch his breath for in reminding himself Izaya won't feel it anyway before pulling off the sticky bandages, immediately using the sting of antiseptic to wipe away blood despite the summoning of more from every wound and weeping freely by the time he applies bandages. The left arm is the hardest, Shinra imagines in every stretch of the meaning. Difficult. Frustrating. Unsure.

The bones have been surgically repaired, held in place by pins and more painful things that hurt to think of them and more to have them. But for Izaya's own benefit and the possible regaining of use for his left arm at all, even with torn shoulders, Shinra calls it as a low to minuscule chance of full recovery. How the next days go are all on Izaya to either make it or break new ground of finding a change in pace for his lifestyle. Careful precision in piecing back together shredded bone and muscle is one of Shinra's specialties, but there are certain cases, none quite like this, where he doubts the full extent of his skill and once again Celty reminds him that he's good enough to do these things. It's why he's a doctor. Because he can.

All of this is tiring, watching the rise and fall of Izaya's chest, struggling at time to make a full loop back around and the oxygen mask hissing with flowing air, reassuring that the fight to keep the informant alive isn't as in vain as it sounds. Completely torn apart in Shinra's definition and horrifying enough to be the result of angry, gut-clenching passion committed entirely by sociopaths. He's not sure, and if that's a good thing or not that's even worse in terms of clarity, if Izaya is even capable of doing this to himself. Someone else—that's another story and something he'd rather not think about. Simpler things like breathing and counting to ten and a reminder of Celty, starting to crumple his heart again, are easier and albeit less painful to focus on. Celty, however, he misses already in the hours to come of losing her time. All for the loss of Shizuo's innocence, which he's never sure how it happens and if the person who committed this crime even knew of Shizuo. Though with the brute's reputation, not uncommon for him at all to have enemies. Plenty of them, though never as much as Izaya has.

He finishes with the last of the bandages in almost an hour, wrapping fresh ones that cover leaking wounds easily and saves the worst parts of cleaning certain areas for last. None of Izaya is a pretty sight and not something he'd like to see again in any lifetime of his, past or next. Sometimes he wonders if this is supposed to be a joke if Izaya's not meant to be part of it and if Shinra's involved—well, he doesn't perchance the deeper sides of the argument present. Composing a text message is as far as he's willing to go, having already soaked his hands in blood. Despite the mask of surgical gloves Shinra begins to realize that the blood of his friends never washes off. Bits and specks remain when they recover, and if they die in which he's never experienced it, Shinra doesn't know whether or not the bloodstains will ever dry when he snaps on a clean pair of gloves and prepares for the coming days.

Profoundly prophetic, he shakes his head and brushes Izaya's too-long hair out of his face, wondering whether or not to cut it would be beneficial and maybe Celty would be a better fit. Too early in the day and in Izaya's life to be philosophical. That's mainly Izaya's job, which he does terribly at.

* * *

Two days pass. Not a word from Celty, starting to wonder when it's an appropriate time to call if he's been sending the minimal amount of text messages. It's so hard though, not hearing a word from Celty and Shinra knows she's going to be okay. But for risking this—even he still isn't sure what's going on anymore. Something about a conspiracy, bloody warehouse, and bodies of people who have evidence of being attacked before being burned with the warehouse. It's a gruesome story that Shinra has to shut off whenever it airs on television, sweeping all over Tokyo and possible national news by now. None of the publicity, even suggesting premeditated murder by some cops who think they actually know what's going on, doesn't make Shinra's job any easier.

Now it's the routine checkup for Izaya, who has been comatose for days. All the immense damage to vital areas keeps Shinra from doing too many tests at once, from STD kits to any foreign DNA anywhere else. Waiting on the results just takes too long and with nothing else to do, not even able to leave for very long in the case of waiting for Izaya's condition to improve or worsen. Nothing noteworthy has come from the entire ordeal, only having the small variables of days and hours to note any insignificant changes. At the very least, Izaya's heart rate isn't through the floor anymore. Oxygen mask still attached to his face, Shinra checks his vitals for every hour, still concerned that Izaya isn't waking up.

Well, it's not that he's in danger of dying...as much.

Shinra waits by the bedside some of the time, checking his phone constantly and Izaya for any signs of waking up soon enough. No news on Shizuo comes as much as he can hope Celty's alright and it's the same chance of wanting Izaya to pull through. He knows it'll happen, despite anything that can go wrong which will, knowing the television reports to be overwhelming in the exhaustive states of trying too hard to get people hooked on the story. Burned bodies in an abandoned warehouse suspected by several people, including severe blunt force trauma on burn victims (how do they even know this if the reporter clearly states that the victims are burned beyond recognition?) directing to a terrifying source. Only the person who has made an anonymous tip has Shizuo Heiwajima's name skyrocketing on the screen only once or twice a day. It's not good press for the blond at all.

Izaya's healing fingers curl in Shinra's when the doctor gets ahold of them, delicate and careful with a friend's healing bones that feel like slivers in his palm from how sharp the bones and joints are, compared to the missing flesh. In his hand the fingers slide with minimal joint movement, careful not to worsen the breaks or slide the splints out of place. Izaya's still cold as ice, no matter the heating blanket over his body with the breaking fever still in place. Shinra questions if it's enough, watching the trembling heartbeat and wondering if this is ever going to end with Izaya, but there's a feeling that nags him when he considers the possibility of this extending far too long.

Izaya's thirst for revenge—he wouldn't let it get to him, would he?

Silence passes as Shinra considers it, thinking that Izaya's a beast and wouldn't let anything stop him when frustrated. He's not the better man but a lonely frustrated one with horrible habits (like Shinra has room to speak, though he prefers to call his habits much cleaner than Izaya's) and whoever did this to Izaya, Shinra feels the thirst clenching in his blood to at least know and dissect their brains, maybe preserve them in formaldehyde when getting the chance. And he calls himself not one for violence.

Fingers continue rubbing gentle patterns into Izaya's hand, warming the flesh from its icy remaining colors of purple and blue, skin raw and knitting itself back together with the many cuts Shinra is careful to avoid and not bandaging because they're small like paper cuts. What he doesn't expect is the break in silence.

The stranger part is that it's not his phone.

It's the tap of fingers on his, twitching in his grasp.

* * *

_Aww, look at me pretending to be nice. Poor Izaya, ne? I just hurt everybody. Oh well._

_Thank you for reading._


	5. Anticipated Surprise

He doesn't have time to react—"Izaya?" Startled, confused, nervous when there isn't a blink of eyes and if he blinks which he does he misses the struggle of throat muscles contorting to swallow. "Izaya, Izaya, can you hear me?" Not too frantic, no, just doctor-tone calm and pressing his fingers a little firmer into Izaya's to make sure that he can actually gauge whether or not the nights of too little sleep are starting to affect him too much. Hallucinations usually would be a first starter symptom but there's something that Shinra needs to rely on to make sure because in a gut feeling-type way he knows that this isn't just a mirage.

It's even better, almost choking on himself when the relief and frustration catch on his breath, as a pointer finger and ring finger, the least broken of all in Izaya's left hand, press onto his flesh. Barely there, the kind of butterfly-light touch Celty gives when they take their time in being more like gentle lovers in Shinra's lucky moments but this isn't Celty. It's Izaya, who is currently pressing the fact that he's _alive_ into Shinra's palm, even if the heart rate on the monitor barely rises. Izaya looks sleepy like a lost child, eyes still refusing to open and twitching at the line of dark lashes, Shinra wanting to warn not to do too much at once or he'll surely go into shock.

"Izaya, don't move. If you can hear me, just listen. Stay still." Shinra is thankful for the pain medications in Izaya's blood, slowing down everything and the fingers still twitch on his fingers, barely there and too soft if he doesn't concentrate on feeling them. So unlike the informant and the best part is that Shinra doesn't care too much for characteristics, having been through hell and back just to keep this idiotic bastard alive. "If you feel any pain, then I'll update your pain medications. Can you give me a tap to let me know you're listening?"

From the oxygen mask Izaya takes a harsher breath, a whistling noise coming from his nose when he tries to gulp in more air and it's worrisome, Shinra holding a little tighter onto the icy cold fingers in case if Izaya hurts himself. But there's a slow tap on his hand, slow and trembling which feels like Izaya is barely alive and while that's a little bit of a stretch it's practically true. Shinra keeps talking, filling the whirr of machines and ugly silence to keep Izaya occupied in order to reduce the risk for a lot of unpredicted reactions.

"Good. You're doing fine, Izaya." Shinra reassures, watching the eyes dart back and forth beneath eyelids and blinking once or twice on his own in reflex, unsure how to express being lucky enough to not have to be in Izaya's position, which sounds selfish, because it is. "Just focus on what I'm saying. You don't have to talk right now, just listen to me. We'll talk when you're feeling better." Izaya's breaths tumble and a tremor sets in his lungs, resulting in a spike on the heart monitor and Shinra unconsciously tightens his fingers around Izaya's, feeling the cold shiver etching into his own muscles. "Do you feel any pain? And numbness, throbbing, sharp, anything like that? Just squeeze this finger." He taps on Izaya's curled fingers, waiting for the sensation that doesn't come. Instead, Izaya's breaths calm a little bit and it's better than having him hyperventilate.

"I bet you're probably wondering where you are," he murmurs aloud and loud enough for Izaya to hear, still keeping the quiet cadence as he talks. "Well, you're in my apartment, as always. We'll talk about it later, but I guess for now I'll talk your ears off, huh?" Shinra's lips curl into a pitiful smile-frown that doesn't make the empty feeling pooling in his gut go away. Instead, it just feels worse when Izaya sighs, too tired to breathe deeply enough to catch his breath. "You're in a lot of pain, but it's even better when you have a doctor like me who will give you what you want to keep it away right now. Most hospital doctors won't even let you have the minimum for what you need to keep your sanity."

Bad joke, but Izaya's fingers still tighten carefully around one finger, tensing and releasing as if testing his grip. Another hand rests on top of Izaya's, brushing the skin carefully to warm it up faster. "So what're you doing here now, Izaya? Don't you think it's too soon to be here? At this rate, you'll be arthritic by the time you turn twenty-two." Remembering the joke of "forever twenty-one" is enough to give a little hope and Izaya may or may not get it but right now is more for Shinra as well. Reassuring and calm, just keeping them both from thinking too much at all.

"You're probably exhausted, from all the sleep you've had." Shinra counts the hours mentally that stick in his thoughts like battle scars and glue. "Almost three solid days, Izaya. I haven't seen much of you, and you're still looking like you did when you first came in." Which is too true that it feels like a punch to the gut and never as worse as swallowing gasoline, _organic_ fluids, (he really does and doesn't want to know) and blood. But still trying to maintain lighthearted conversation.

Down to some business. Just enough, maybe. "But...right now, you're finding it a little hard to breathe. That's okay though," Shinra makes a generalized brush of his hand over Izaya's bony wrist, careful when he hears a hitching breath and doesn't move any further, pretending not to notice the rope bruises on the flesh. "Because your throat is pretty bruised you're not getting enough oxygen all the time, but still enough to keep from getting lightheaded. If you need any more, just let me know." Shinra pauses, thinking of words to say when Izaya's eyelids struggle to open and he doesn't know how to say no and yes without meaning too much. "Right now we're going to take it easy."

Izaya's fingers are loose in his own grasp and he wouldn't be caught dead doing this. But this is so different that it's not the same person so he can pretend that it doesn't bother him that he's doing this—but not for the reason he thinks. "It's okay if you can't remember anything right now. Honestly," Shinra shakes his head, unstable and unsteady footing treading cautiously over frozen rivers brimming with fast white water. "Honestly, I think it's better if you didn't remember. Sounds selfish, huh? Well, it is, but you've never cared for being too selfish."

Just a twitch in response. A small notion that Izaya hears the attempt of trying to keep them both afloat and sane for the time being, as if the informant is actually choosing to care when all others don't matter. Shinra knows it's unrealistic, though his imagination or lack thereof keeps the crazy ideas coming in all kinds of manners when Izaya can't do much but participate in a silly experiment. Maybe he misses Celty too much, which is always true when she's not around.

"Do you feel like going back to sleep?" A squeeze, gentle and barely there, less than before with some strength and this fading like the movements of Izaya's chest, heartbeat slowing once again. "Don't let me bother you then. You'll need it for a while." The next words stick in his throat with a sticky substance he doesn't like identifying but still does because there's a chance the smallest part of him is still human enough.

"Just remember to wake up, all right?"

Izaya doesn't reply, hand sliding back to his side. Shinra breathes a sigh of relief and nerve-wracking anxiety wrapping itself up in his throat, just in the endings of his esophagus around the tops of his lungs. Just beneath the collarbone.

There are times where he feels too human.

* * *

Day three passes along slowly at a snail's crawl, not a word nor a flower of a thought from Celty, much less Shizuo or anyone else outside of his apartment. Everyone lying low, for some reason, and Shinra starts to feel the slightest bit lonely while he knows it's not fair to Izaya, sleeping the day away once again. He figures, as a doctor, that Izaya's body can barely handle the stresses of burdens being put on it with so many at once that it short-circuits far too often, but the slightly hopeful part is that Izaya's not in too much pain, recovering smoothly even if progress is slow.

The feeding IV is still in place, Shinra deciding to keep it until Izaya is conscious enough to make his own decisions but the consequence of this lies in what Izaya knows and remembers, which makes a terrifying afterthought for all the mental instability compromising him now, inactive as he sleeps. Shinra's considered many alternative methods, from therapy to mental evaluations, but none make a clear statement in his head as if to label Izaya so easily when he knows most things don't apply to the informant. Being regrettably human is a terrible choice that can't be avoided, but Shinra wonders what entirely he's supposed to do when Izaya isn't like any other patient and he doesn't specialize in mental disruption.

It's a consuming thought, surrounded by others sure to weigh him down as he checks texts over one hundred times, not obsessive at all if he goes by usual terms and feeling a pang or two when Celty doesn't text. It's not like her and he knows she's well off enough to take care of herself. He worries, well, how can he not? He loves her—and therefore the right to worry is right alongside loving his dearest Celty. In her absence he monitors and checks and sometimes speaks to Izaya, sleeping and sleeping though his breaths sometimes pause and an alarm sounds maybe once or twice, but they're still okay.

The evening of the third day has Izaya awake again. Shinra using a routine method, trying now after a long day of sleeping to get Izaya to wake with spreading the fingers, testing flexibility and bone healing while warming the cold skin of Izaya's hands. During the process he thinks uncharacteristically that he should buy some gloves or even _mittens_ to keep Izaya's hands from turning an ugly shade of purple. A side effect of medication and low body heat, but still troublesome enough to deal with.

Luckily for him, the excessive poking and prodding finally gets a response, trembling fingers around his and he looks to Izaya's face for any warnings of waking up, seeing nothing else in the neutral expression. If anything, Izaya looks asleep as usual. But the feeling of fingers wrapping around Shinra's is not an illusion. "Hey, you awake already?" Shinra greets quietly, fingers dancing a pattern on the meat of Izaya's thumb, careful over the bruise there and never straying far enough to the scar in the middle of Izaya's palm.

No response. Shinra knows better. "Good to see you too. You've been sleeping another day away already. You usually never do that, except for that one time in high school where you spent days awake, studying for something that was so beneath you that you failed it just because you could prove the teacher wrong." The memory comes back to Shinra, reminding him of the day and the thoughts that ran through his teenage mind, not understanding why Izaya would spend nights never sleeping when he knew the informant loved his sleep a little too much. "Though I didn't know what was going on then, and not really anyone else did."

Careful—tentative and so ginger it hurts to move—squeeze around Shinra's thumb. Like a child, but he still knows Izaya is Izaya. Maybe not the same, as grim as it sounds, as before. "How are you feeling? Any better than yesterday, or not so much?" A scratch at his thumb, not enough to hurt but differing from a touch. That must've meant a no, then. "Anything bothering you? Like your throat, stomach, anywhere?"

Izaya's eyes remain stubbornly shut, eyes flickering beneath in lazy movements when he tries to lift the heavy lids and Shinra thinks of it as a strange new experience, not knowing the vulnerable side to one of his own friends, grown distant by time and differences in opinion but still there enough to never leave. The tug-o-war of wanting to open his eyes is also one Shinra considers but leaves it best for Izaya to decide—he's going to have to, nevertheless.

"Don't worry too much about it." Another calming motion, over the knuckles of Izaya's hand. He still can't bring himself to mention the scars on Izaya's hands that can only be reduced with plastic surgery, and still with a minimal chance. "If you don't want to wake up just yet, that's fine. I'll leave you be." Another scratch at his finger, almost frustrated and Shinra holds still, repeating the motions of his careful fingers from years of practice and learning that the human body, while versatile, is a delicate thing. Izaya is no exception.

"Too tired to fall back asleep then, I'd say." Shinra runs a hand tiredly though brown locks, knowing the feeling too well himself. "I'll have to talk your ear off until then. Remember what I said yesterday? Don't get up, and don't move too much. If you need anything, tap on my finger twice." Shinra makes an example with Izaya's finger, dull thuds against the joint and feeling a shudder weakly trace up his arm. Almost regretting the action he loosens his grip, waiting for Izaya to respond but the action doesn't come, room humming with silence and no reactions to be felt.

"So tonight, it's Wednesday." Shinra mentions, still checking to gauge a reaction while he begins his rambling. "Celty hasn't texted me in a while, and I miss my dearest—" Scratch. Apparently even Izaya knows when Shinra's ranting about his beloved, which is oh so rude when considering the doctor has taken care of him thus far. "What, so you don't want me to talk about my beloved Celty? You're not very grateful at all, Izaya."

No response. Another sigh, another run through his hair and blinking dry eyes. "Yeah, you don't share my love for my darling Celty. Which is a good thing, if you think about it. Anyway, you've still been out for a while. Making progress day by day, but since it's only day three, there isn't much to say." Shinra doesn't look up, knowing the same process of Izaya trying to wake up and still fight the notion. "You're healing up quite nicely, so there's a relief for you and me, since I don't feel like patching up any of my friends anytime soon." A small, dry chuckle that feels too bitter to exist.

"But you're doing better than I expected." More than anyone expects when keeping Izaya alive. Extensive wounds, requiring surgery and immediate repair, and plenty of blood loss to keep him buzzing for days with adrenaline surges. "Your body's trying to fight off a lot of infection with that fever you have, but all you've been is cold, right? Still a lot better than anyone expected for you, knowing where you came from, kind of." Shinra doesn't want to mention and Izaya is silent, possibly silently enjoying the circles from the pad of Shinra's pinky over his last knuckles. Izaya is a sucker for touch, he hypothesizes, but won't bring up for now.

"Maybe it's a lot to ask you, but I'll still ask anyway." Breathe in, feel Izaya's fingers tense as weakly as they possibly can and remember that this is the way life is for now. "When you're awake, don't get lost in the dark." He doesn't expect Izaya to understand much of anything, expecting the lack of reaction that comes after for several moments, ready to keep going while Izaya's brain is foggy with medication.

"Is there any pain you're feeling right now?" Tighter squeeze, almost shift of lips like teeth grinding together. Shinra feels doctor instincts kick in. "What's bothering you? One tap for head, two taps for your stomach, and scratch if it's your arm or somewhere else." One tap, signifying head and Shinra guesses head and throat while he's at it, scooting his rolling chair a little closer to capture Izaya's chin without actually touching the skin, not wanting to risk this dangerous game of balance. Remembering the last pain medication dosage is a while ago Shinra decides to dose again, sitting up with one hand still over Izaya's and the other pressing a button on a machine, setting the next dosage of painkillers before sitting back down.

Liquid travels in the IV, reaching Izaya and the effect is almost always immediate. "Better?" A small squeeze, just a slow brush of fingers, and it's good enough for Shinra. "Good to hear."

* * *

Shizuo never sorts himself as cut out for low-key behavior. Residing with a bunch of shady guys whose boss is claiming to help him with the arson charges—it's not even his fault why is he still here—while not allowed to do much of anything. The only relief is that Celty is nearby, forcibly having to stop him from beating up some of the annoying shits that ask too many questions or back away like he's a monster and they're any better. Bullshit, all of this is. Waiting around, not allowed to go outside, and still too much time to think makes everything boring and dull, waiting for word from the guy, Shiki, and his informants.

Celty doesn't mean to ask any questions, knowing by day two that he's fed up and it's been four days in this shit hole. And if he tries to ask anything related to why he's here in the first place besides the basics of being accused of arson—fuck, even murder—Celty just shakes her head and takes off. Leaves him be to the corrosive thoughts damaging his head with the ongoing chaos outside and he's locked away like some _monster_ waiting to be tested and collared. Shiki reassures that it's not, but how would the bastard know? He may be more trustworthy than his goons, but it doesn't make this any more worth the waiting around, sitting pretty.

"What's the big deal?" he finally has to ask, having had far too much to take and too bored, rotting his thoughts in a prison cell of his own head reassuring he's no monster. "Why aren't you telling me anything? I mean, I get I know I have to be here and shit, but you can at least tell me something because I'm the one who has to sit around here." Trying not to be too forceful to Celty, alone in the afternoon when she keeps texting on her phone and it's not messages to him for the next few moments, nor have they been in several days. Even their friendship feels strained and he wants to believe it's not his fault. It really can't be, right?

The headless rider cocks her head at him, shoulder sighing in a slight murmur of a breath of smoke tumbling from her throat, no helmet on but she can't figure out how to gesticulate to Shizuo in a way they can both call understandable when she knows he needs answers. Moving to type on her phone she doesn't look up at him yet, unable to face her own denial of the situation thoughts swarming in her head of words to put together to make it sound better but mitigating the problem is the last thing he needs. [It's hard to say, because we can't endanger you with too much about what's going on.] True, harsh, and not cleanly cut as she would hope for it to be.

"I get that." Shizuo sighs, popping his fingers one by one and the growl set in his lips never fades, eyes shifting toward a source of footsteps in another room close by. "But you can't just expect me to sit here and take whatever you tell me to do. I have a reason to know why you people aren't letting me know anything at all." Celty remembers that Shizuo doesn't even know much at all about why he's here, or about the news story and warrant for his arrest.

Things have only been getting bad to worse and while they're here she supposes it can't be too bad to let him know something. Just...putting her thoughts together, thinking of missing Shinra while wondering how Izaya is doing, despite Shinra's absent text messages that have only been about her start bothering her more than they usually do. If it was up to her, she wouldn't be here, waiting for some form of contact from Shinra. But she knows better. [Shizuo...please don't get angry when I tell you.]

He rolls his eyes with a snort but complies at her serious expression, sans head and waits expectantly with arms crossed annoyed from being denied answers for so long. [Do you remember the warehouse fire? On the news?] A nod, and she hesitates as she types more. [Since the warehouse was set on fire with those wounds, you were framed. But you already know that.]

More eying from Shizuo, waiting to get to the important part _hurry up._

[There's a warrant for your arrest. That's why you can't meet anyone on the outside at all, because Shiki-san is trying to prove your innocence.]

A million questions spring in his head even when his limbs seize with fury.

"What the fuck!?" Shizuo starts and not so gently reaches for the nearest object to break, foot slamming on the ground and craving a cigarette between his fingers to sear into his flesh. The blood in his veins is hot and sticky, coursing through him with the pounding shudders of his heartbeat pumping faster and faster, filling him with the claws of anger hooking on his spine and shredding into his muscles. Celty can see the reaction—only the visible parts she can see how furious he is and it's a dangerous thing to witness—her shadows coming to wrap around his hands and feet to try and keep him from reacting too violently and possibly destroying the building. "They think I've done it, and now those bastards put a warrant on me? That's fucking ridiculous!" He sounds like murder and Celty hears it in the blood draining any logical sense like the blood trails on the ground from the day of retrieving Izaya, a shiver running down her back and she types with shaking fingers when she remembers her heart leaping out of her throat.

[Shizuo, someone framed you. You've got to calm down!] Celty texts as frantically as she can while remaining calm, holding the tremor in her shoulders to restrain Shizuo while he sends a snarl her way, pretending she doesn't shiver at times inwardly from thinking about what the person who framed Shizuo will suffer. [I know it doesn't look good. But you can't just go out there and get arrested and charged with a crime you didn't do. Don't you know what your brother will think?] It's a low blow, particularly harsh and meaningful in Shizuo's eyes fading from the anger-bright growl rumbling low in his throat and he stops moving for once in fighting the shadows, angry and furious with burning rage down to the slick sweat of his soul and whatever happens he wants to _killkillkill_ the bastard responsible. Celty's right, though, even if the truth is more than he wants to admit to and sitting around is possibly the only thing he can do without getting himself into more trouble.

He hates it—he hates feeling so _helpless._ Celty knows but not the full extent of being so powerful he can shatter mountains if he tries, so restlessly angry to destroy anything he touches in fear of destroying himself and everything around him he's still angry and hurt and too many things full of anger that makes him dizzy and ill with nausea considering his monstrous tendencies. He himself is a monster and to admit it means admitting defeat though there's nothing more he can do but pretend with Celty who doesn't fear him and get angry at the wrong people over and over again, apologize to Tom because he really doesn't mean to be so aggressive some days and the flea just rubs him the wrong way and he can't control himself.

Most of the time he can block out the disappointment shuddering from morning breaths after breaking the window to the waking world from sleep and in the moments where he manages to destroy everything after the sneaky little bastard flea disappears in thin air, giggling like the little shit he is.

Which reminds him. "Hey," Shizuo forces the calm and remembers Tom's advice mixing with Celty's, deeper breaths through his nose and ignore the frustration of wanting to rip his limbs out. "Is the flea involved in this?" he spits acid and venom, mixing on the floor surely to sink through and Celty starts, pausing and a current of electricity looks to pass through her and conduct the smoke to channel inwardly when she doesn't have an immediate answer and not knowing how to say much of anything.

But he has to know—right? That's what she would want and Izaya she doesn't even know if he's alive or ill or anything at all and as much as she wants to go home she's still here for Shizuo. So it's best while she can to contain his anger. [No. Not in the way you think.]

"What do you mean?" Shizuo narrows his eyes, fingers clenching into heavy fists and Celty doesn't touch him when she wants to tell him. She knows much better than certain things.

[He's a victim of the attacks. The one you gave blood to, that was him. I—when I went to the warehouse that night, I was sent by a text.] She types quickly but she doesn't mention Kida or Mikado, preferring to keep their lives spared while Shizuo's brain is only starting to put the pieces together. [I found him covered in blood, and he was wounded so badly, I thought he wasn't going to live. Shinra needed blood and you match his type so we...] Trailing off is a good idea and summoning her shadows as well, because Shizuo is livid and rage she can see pooling in his muscles once again, knowing it useless when he roars in disgust and frenzied anger.

"Are you _shitting_ me!?" She wishes she is.

This is going to be a long day.

* * *

Dealings start with text messages to Shinra's phone, from an unknown source but his heart tells him it's Celty. After all, spending several days with Izaya is bound to lead his mind wandering to other conclusions while the outside world calms down from the news coverage of the gruesome warehouse fire. It's not that he's not interested but rather has a firsthand account he's more or less unwilling to hear from, so it's better to turn off the television when it reminds him of his patient sleeping away most of the day, making recovery shakily and responding well to anything Shinra throws at him. He would almost say he's proud and then again it's Izaya so he just keeps it in his little mind jar of ego-centric praise. Celty's sure to notice his medical prowess, (although he prefers it for after Izaya heals) so he waits instead to hear the opinion of his beloved.

Only another day ahead, day eight beginning and he still finds himself waking up early, beginning a second week into bad sleeping habits and he really does miss his beloved so very much it takes looking at some _naughty_ photos at times to help the time pass, but otherwise he spends most of his time talking to Izaya. Slowly becoming more responsive it's easier to hold somewhat communication with the strange silence that's starting to settle in no matter how little Shinra is used to it. He hopes with each physical exam every morning and night that Izaya's throat will recover, even if the rest of him is so damaged any recovery is slim. He likes to think of himself as hopeful and optimistic with a tad of wishful thinking filling up the place for the both of them. Izaya's too tired to do much of anything while Shinra reads messages that are updates—mostly vague, confusing at best—and he's sure in his heart they're from Celty.

"Good morning." Shinra greets Izaya, still having an oxygen mask because of his throat and met with silence nevertheless. "I wonder if you're awake, but I doubt it, since you usually sleep throughout the entire morning. What am I going to do with you when you don't sleep?" Shinra grazes his hand against Izaya's fingers, unraveling the loose fist as to let Izaya know he's there. His eyes haven't opened much—it's concerning and Shinra keeps meticulous track of these things because he's sure that he can fix this. "You're much nicer when you can't talk, you know. Although I'd love to hear Celty's voice, I'm a man who can live with simple things."

Izaya's fingers scratch his hand and he laughs, used to having the unexpected surprise when Izaya moves. Little things are so unfamiliar he's not sure how they've become like this besides the known facts. "I'm flattered you remember. Almost thought I'd lost you to your own boredom," he chuckles, Izaya's fingers resting in his hand when he carefully pushes them apart and tests flexibility. His eyes are still closed and Shinra doesn't like it at all when nothing is supposed to be wrong with him and yet he hasn't seen the deadly crimson at all. "Hey, think you can manage something for me? Nothing too big, just a favor."

Fingers twitch in his hand and he nods to himself, waiting as the muscles still for Izaya to listen even if he knows Izaya (always notes always details every little thing) is still there. "Can you open your eyes for me? Not all the way, but a little at a time." During Izaya's sleep he's checked the eyes with a flashlight and there's nothing physically wrong with them so he's not sure why Izaya can't open them yet and the thoughts in his head are too many at once to discern from one another. However when he asks immediately the grip on his hand tightens and the fingers feel like snakes, cold and uneasy with the twitches and Shinra thinks he imagines the full body shudder that barely surfaces past muscles, not knowing Izaya to be—nervous and afraid but that's not right it can't be right—resistant to much of anything.

"What's wrong?" Shinra massages the interosseous muscles of Izaya's hand, between the thumb and forefinger as gently as he can while trying to get any means of communication from Izaya. "Do your eyes hurt?" No reaction—that's odd. "Is there a reason you don't want to, or are you just tired?" He shouldn't be tired for this long.

But maybe Shinra isn't thinking about the full scope, gaze traveling to Izaya's eyes when all he feels is another weak shiver that's barely there and electrified in his palm. Izaya's face is fine with the swelling mostly gone and his eyes aren't so badly bruised, maybe sore but he's lucky that there's no permanent damage.

Wait. Wait a minute. Izaya isn't moving at all, barest brushes of fingers in Shinra's hand and it's seemingly that he wants to pull his hand away but Shinra won't let him anymore. "Is there something wrong with seeing anything?" A scratch confirms that seeing isn't the problem. So what would be, besides the scratches under his eyes? "Are you..." he's not sure for the right wording he wants to place without trying to insult Izaya but then again the informant is under heavy medication, as coherent as he is. So he tries, venturing a little further into thinking in the friend part instead of the doctor area of his brain like flipping a switch. "Are you afraid of something, Izaya?" And it sounds so ridiculous when he says it he wants to take it back and laugh kind of awkwardly to himself because it doesn't seem right.

But Izaya's fingers don't sweep or pinch. Which means the gingerly stated _yes_ that he doesn't want to admit to himself but it's Shinra and with virtually no one else seeing him as it is Shinra has to hand it to Izaya for being clever enough on certain things. Especially in moments like these, where he suddenly stops moving and Shinra notices the faster heartbeat picking up on the monitor. So that's what it is, then.

"Why?" he knows it's embarrassing for Izaya and the least he can do is not mention fear in the same room as Izaya unless talking about prey but nothing has made any sort of progress besides the physical things so he keeps to talking, soothing the tension in Izaya's muscles of his hand as best as he can. Izaya's fingers curl inward, still healing but Shinra won't let them go no matter how little he can struggle, practically immobilized from his injuries even at this point and there's no getting away from facing reality. Shinra learns this a long time ago and he knows Izaya knows it too. "You're...you're not back there with whoever, you know?" he sighs, takes a breath and runs a hand through his hair before it comes to cover the rest of Izaya's hand. An odd action, but the comfort in the gesture is still there.

"It's pretty scary, being alive after all of that. I can't imagine," he continues on, talking to control himself so he doesn't bring anything up while Izaya listens, tensed and the urge to flee if only he can. "And I don't want to. What you've been through is more than any human being could manage, but you're still here and kicking, aren't you? You've been doing more than I've expected this entire time, and it's only been a week of lying in bed and listening to my rambling." Still silent Izaya's fingers slacken only in fractions of degrees, Shinra taking over in watching the monitor while his gaze flickers to the informant's face, almost hopeful and still doubtful. "There's nothing I could say that would be helpful in getting over this. You only survive this if you want to, because all I can do is give what you ask for. Even then, it's still not much. Do you understand?"

Tentatively, Izaya's fingers brush against his. It's enough to let him know what he needs to, in this shifting friendship of theirs. "You know you're safe here. I won't experiment on you when you can't see me. If it's not today, can it be sometime, then? The only way to be characteristic to your horrible personality is to glare at us whenever possible." If it's conducive to any effort, Shinra doesn't mind laughing at his own jokes.

Though the old wound of a scratch on Izaya's eye is gone, he wonders if that's it. But Izaya doesn't look to be in pain when his fingers ghost over the healing skin, thinking to himself but doesn't dare move any closer. Izaya trusts him now—a dangerous, mixed sort of feeling that comes from having nowhere else to go and Shinra would rather earn the real thing than an instinctual need to survive. Keep talking, filling in the silence of waiting for a better time of not having to watch his friend agonize over very real fears that make him too human to bear at times. "Ah, maybe you should give it a rest. You've got quite the concussion anyway, so I don't want you to risk hurting yourself." Izaya remains quiet throughout the thoughts that filter into Shinra's mind, already feeling uneasy and anxious when alone and waiting for Celty.

Izaya's breathing is soft and quiet, filling the silence with the rasp of the ventilator as Shinra thinks of something to say, his mind is frazzled and he misses Celty beyond belief, wanting her to talk to and assure himself that he's doing the best he can. He knows what he does is absolutely sure and there's no reason to doubt but there are times like this where he wants her gentle reassurance. Checking his phone won't bring him anything but crushing his hopes so he sticks to playing with Izaya's fingers—or in official terms, testing flexibility and strength. As long as Izaya doesn't seem to mind, eyes never opening and almost concerning Shinra from the lack of eye movement while Shinra gets him to tap fingers against his thumb as well as bend the stiff joints as far as they can move.

Then Izaya's pinky loops with his, Shinra startled when he finds the gesture a small assurance with a pinky curled around his, just like schoolchildren and they've never done this before, never being this close and he's probably under the influence of the automatic dosage of new drugs when he sighs, leaving his hand in Shinra's. "So it's like that, huh?" Shinra pokes Izaya's fingers until he recoils, pinky still connected with his and now just being a pest to pass the time. "What are you promising to do, enslave Tokyo to your terrifying will? That would be interesting—I'd question how it would be possible for you to have total mind control considering that they listen to your orders. You're so small people won't take you seriously."

Bandaged tape over where Izaya's fingernails used to be scratches on his hand, digging in to the point where it starts to sting and Shinra chuckles to himself, eyes catching the difficult swallow of saliva Izaya attempts to execute without choking himself, vocal cords in a state of disaster and the readings he can predict aren't certain. It's the one thing he worries about, possibly the most besides Izaya living long enough through this to get back to normal—or whatever constitutes as normal for an almost-psychopathic friend who happens to be the best and worst informant to ever live. Right now is just one of those bad days, connected by a chain of bad weeks and it's (never the worst) all behind him for now. It'll be okay, he thinks.

"Well, there's not much to do around here. No sight or word from my darling Celty, and you're still confined to bed until I say you can leave." The doctor hums to himself, relaxing his hands so that Izaya's icy ones can steal the warmth from his and pretend not to notice. "Talking to dead people wouldn't be fun at all, and you're pretty close considering the state of your—ow!" Izaya decides he's had enough of the death talk, conscious enough to pinch Shinra hard and exert the strength in his fingers on twisting Shinra's thumb back, earning an annoyed yelp. "Well aren't you grateful for everything I do for you. Why would you do that?" he fakes a hurt tone, trying to keep the laugh down when Izaya pinches him again, harder this time and sighs. Which Shinra understands—he's not the one to pass the time so easily, especially with his stupid and or dirty brand of humor.

"And I know what you're thinking—why can't I just go dissect someone and leave you alone and tell some corpse all about my darling Celty?" Shinra has to do it, just to get the twitch of muscles and brushing a hand on the heating blanket to make sure it's still warm. "Well, if you must know, I don't have anyone dead to dissect, or really anyone I want to. Also, I'm a doctor so I'm not necessarily into that, unless if you count Shizuo and I'd really like to study his brain and his body. Though he's not a very nice test subject at all. You know, he thinks it's stupid I want to dissect him and it's not like I'm going to perform a vivisection because I don't do that. Maybe if Shizuo permitted it..." he rambles on, imagining the unamused look Izaya could give if he had the chance and could glare at him. "But otherwise, you're here, Celty's not, and I don't deal with dead bodies. So you're stuck with me whether you like it or not because at least it helps you think of some other pain than the stuff you're dealing with now."

He's thinking of Celty, it's not helping with staying strong and not babbling about her like he's obsessed and he may as well be but the thought of her waiting for him is enough to placate him for now, as depressing as it is. "And maybe I could teach you how to be a human being. But there's so much to teach, it may as well be impossible to start anytime soon. Why don't you heal up first, open those atrocious eyes of yours, and glare at me when you want to? I heard feelings are a good friendship builder." His lips twist into a smile, devious while Izaya frowns, the humor so stupid but it's a relief to have Izaya listen to him, brushing fingers. "And while you can't talk I can make up any rumor about you, like the fact you watch children's shows for your Saturday morning cartoons. Ruin your godly image, huh? Bet you'd hate me forever—but it's a good kind of hate."

But Izaya's fingers don't pinch at the children's show allegation and Shinra pauses for a moment, thinking this over clearly again and again. Would it be Izaya playing along or for serious he wouldn't know—possibly unsure if he would rather know in the first place. Izaya's tired anyway, pain medications having the effect of drowsiness and Shinra doesn't want to impair recovery for too long. "Hey, do you need anything? I don't want to keep you awake too long." He moves to pull his hands away from Izaya's, not expecting the sudden pull on his when he tries to untangle Izaya's fingers from his palm. When he tugs gently they tighten—near squeezing and Izaya manages the same awkward swallow, Shinra's brain still connecting the dots.

"You want me to stay?" he phrases it carefully, not sure what to believe at this point. But Izaya's fingers tighten on his hand and he takes it as an affirmative, sitting back down with an exaggerated sigh. "So demanding, aren't you," he starts the stroking of Izaya's hand again, easing the tension already built up in the fingers and watching the reflexive stretch and curl as he pushes and presses. Izaya hasn't answered at all by the time Shinra remembers the silence, looking up to find the lower reading on the monitor and glancing back at Izaya, eyes still closed but his hand slackened in Shinra's. From the heart rate recorded he looks fine, if not just a little pale from the lack of body heat.

And because he's a friend, Shinra stays for a little longer.

* * *

_And this is the sound of my heart melting, made of ice and black icky stuff if I had one. Goodness, this chapter is so sweet. What have I turned in to?_

_Thank you for reading._


	6. End of Infinity

The days pass like the rubber balls exploding on the walls, Shizuo fed up with the wait and the tiresome bother of why he's trying to do this in the first place. The other yakuza, namely the one by the name of Akabayashi, he doesn't trust at all. They're creepy and they ooze with violence—which he hates the most. Almost as much as the flea—but being bored and exploding rubber balls Celty makes with shadows leaves him itching for something to do. Release the extra steam and excess energy, something to make him feel not so caged and ready to be scooped out and hollowed while he slowly loses his mind to the quiet thoughts that plague him. Being in this sort of hideout is disgustingly annoying and the scent of blood is starting to sink into his brain with the headaches they cause. The inside of his skull feels like stars colliding and bursting from nebulae to clouds of gas erupting in the radioactive feel of wanting to move and destroy something before he bursts from the pressure building up.

In short, he feels ready to explode. All the constant tension, the eyes on him watching his every move and Celty trying her best to keep him in check around these scumbags but even she looks tired, glancing at her phone and texting with slow fingers, thinking out the possible routes she can take without giving too much away as per the guy's—Shiki, his name is—agreement to keep them there for now. With two weeks passing by there's nothing to do but sit and feel his body rot in this shithole of a hideout with a bunch of violence-embracing scum. What feels better is the sound of ripping them apart, against his better judgment against any reason at all because they all smell like blood and the after effects of fear from victims where the sweat collects on their clothes. He knows the ones, easily enough, left with cleaning. They reek the worst.

Today is another day of expecting the worst as per usual. Celty is in her room, closed off and tired from being here just like Shizuo is and he knows not to interrupt her. Hence why if he hears anyone outside his door across from Celty's he'll be the first to paint the walls as he bashes their heads in, frustration being taken out on not those stupid rubber balls Celty makes when those don't do anything for how much he hates this place. He hates the people and he hates the smells and most importantly he hates the fact he is the monster who can be blamed as capable of committing a crime he still doesn't know the full details about. A warehouse fire, murder, and lots and lots of blood. Little evidence left, seeing as the entire place burned to the ground on live television Shizuo watched only for a minute before he couldn't take it, destroying one or two things and having to feel his own regret stinging in his hands from the wooden splinters of destroying a table. Celty is the one who covers for him like she does all the time—guilt creeps in, salty and thick—and Shizuo hates how much he hates himself.

What makes today interesting is the knock at his door, dressed in sterile clothing—refusing to accept any from the other freaks here that reek of blood and vomit and other bodily fluids he doesn't want to ask—and the crisp two knocks that ring in his small room. It's bigger than his own room at his apartment but he doesn't want to know what's happening to it and he hates the too big feel of the place and how empty it is. Artwork on the walls and decorative touch added, like a family home with no invitations because he is the monster of setting things on fire and watching them burn from the flames of his hands. Everything he touches becomes ashes and he self-destructs these things to keep from losing his mind. It's the least he can do, to try and feel the smallest bit human.

"Shiki-sama is requesting you, Heiwajima-sama," a curt voice calls from the other side of the door. Shizuo grunts a recognition of the request and waits for the footsteps to leave, as they always do, but they don't in the next seconds of closing his eyes and telling himself to _breathe_ for a couple minutes. Just a little longer and calm down when he can't focus except for on his anger and all the rage bubbling over in sticky black slime filling his lungs. When a minute passes by without sound or haste Shizuo gets up, padding over to the door with caution in his steps, hand on the doorknob ready to tear it out if need be when he trusts none of these murderers and thieves.

One of the middle or upper-ranking guys is there, waiting for him and with eyes that don't say anything. Finally some peace and quiet, as he's only heard nothing but the noise of the other idiots' thoughts and as frustrating as it is to tell them all to _shut the fuck up_ there is only so much he can do and so little the idiots listen to. Not that anything helps, even if their boss tells them to do it. And when Shizuo glares at the guy he doesn't even flinch, simply glancing back at Shizuo and then moving his eyes to point down the hallway where the Shiki guy is. Satisfied and bored out of his mind Shizuo fully exits his room, having to follow the guy (suspicious as hell and never to be trusted) down the twisting hallways that are lined with art and even though he doesn't know much about the business it all seems fake with a funky fish smell attached meaning there's always trouble with curiosity.

"Shiki-sama, Heiwajima-sama has arrived." The guy turns and leaves shortly after, leaving two freaks standing behind Shiki and his white suit he always wears, sitting on the couch and puffing a cigarette. With stiff movements Shizuo goes to sit, already bad feelings sinking in when this guy has an intimidating aura but nothing scares a monster—he doesn't like being here as is but he knows this is the guy responsible for helping clean up his life—quite like another monster. Depending entirely, however, on the type and the lack of humanity in a monster to make up for the qualities that persist in the monsters that are completely cold-blooded. As Shizuo sits he forces his thoughts to shut up and tries to look like he's paying attention, trying and failing while Shiki silently pulls out a carton of cigarettes and pulls one, offering it to Shizuo.

In his other hand is a lighter. Shizuo's fingers, capable of breaking anything from _insects_ to steel and never aware of his own strength, take the cigarette and hold it over the flame of the lighter clicking on. Shizuo drags a breath, interested in finding that the brand he smokes is the same that Shiki does in an odd coincidence. He's not here for pleasantries, however, and the guy still pisses him off just for being a yakuza. "I hope you're feeling a little more comfortable here, Heiwajima-san. I know it is unlike the comforts of your home, but there is little I can do for that, but accommodate you by your request." Shiki starts, taking a longer drag of the cigarette and briefly he catches Shizuo's eyes flickering to his men, knowing the meaning and taking the challenge of gazing back into the eyes of a monster. "If you would like, I can dismiss them. I don't doubt that you wouldn't attempt to harm me."

Shizuo blinks, the furrow in his brow settling but still uncomfortable going by the way he still sends glares to the men standing dutifully behind Shiki, waiting like perched dominoes to fall. They stand silent and stone cold waiting like statues for the first chance that Shizuo will slip up and then dare to try to rip him apart. Everyone in this room knows it's not possible. "Ah, leave 'em." Shizuo widens his legs, leaning back against the couch while Shiki crosses a leg. The older man nods, taking in Shizuo's reactions and doesn't dismiss his men despite the tension building in Shizuo's veins, grasping at his muscles and twitching beneath the iron cords of his skin.

"I want to get to business." Shiki takes a lighter drag while Shizuo carefully smokes his, savoring the dulling sensation of nicotine. "You, as the courier may have told you, gave your blood to my informant, Izaya, when he was bleeding to death. Without your knowledge, however." Shizuo's fingers tighten and he remembers the room he destroyed in a fit of rage from hearing he had just saved Izaya's life and didn't even know, didn't know what to think or feel or how to respond except smash things because it was as simple and effective as anger management could get. The rush of _something_ he does not know how to describe. Shiki continues easily. "Understandable, knowing of the rivalry you two have in common. With the occurrence that you ultimately saved Orihara's life, he is indebted to you in a code of honor. I will fulfill it for him while he recovers."

Shizuo doesn't know where this is going or why this is going downhill quickly talking about Izaya when he'd rather not. "Seeing as you saved his life, I will be helping you clear your name from the accusations of murder and arson. It is not every day I offer this, nor that I have to have my best informant brought back to life." Shiki keeps his back straight and his tone polite, calmer than the goons around here and Shizuo doesn't hate him as much because the guy is honest and he prefers it instead of the confused or challenging stares he gets around this place. Not to mention the challenges of his name or the insults that rise up from idiots who don't know any better until their heads meet the wall. "For the full effect of this agreement to work, I need your utmost cooperation. Whatever I ask you to do, within reason, you will do it. And this is only for your benefit."

Shizuo takes a harsher drag and lets the cigarette smoke burn his nose before he thinks of an answer, composing himself from the bubble of anger building in his stomach that he wants to cool and freeze to never feel again. "I'm not doing anything that involves violence. I hate violence," he replies, simple because the answer is simple and it should be enough for these people who like to make things complicated. Just like the flea, holding his blood and the reason he's still alive is because of Shizuo's monster blood running in his veins. In three months, Shizuo remembers, the blood will be filtered out completely. Three months Izaya will become a monster like him, holding his blood and carrying the curse that doesn't transfer save for only in mentality.

"You won't need to be doing anything more than what you usually do. I will be taking care of it." Shiki says, stubbing out his cigarette on the ashtray and placing his hands in his lap, still calm and collected. "I only need at this point in time your full consent to this. I need it clear that you understand I will be clearing your name from every charge and that you will be willing to help. In return I ask that any measures toward keeping Orihara alive will be taken, if you are needed in any process." Then the tables turn and flip over, shattering soon enough in the imaginary feeling of Shizuo crushing his anger away and being able to respond calmly, an impossibility like the flaws in paintings hanging on the walls that don't feel real. Neither does Shizuo, but those are different matters of humanity and the limits of the conscience and how much self-depreciation it can create and destroy.

Shizuo runs a hand through his messy bangs, hating the odd feel of the borrowed clothes on his skin instead of the bartender suit from his brother. He wants to talk to Kasuka but knows he can't, can't get his brother involved in this when he doesn't even know what is going on. "You want me to help the flea? You're asking way too much. I already gave him my blood, what more do you want!?" Shizuo never means to get angrier yet he still does, voice rising while a growl sets in his throat, sounding like ripping pavement from the roads and grinding it up. It's a petty thought that resorts to the simple things like blaming Izaya for—everything that's going so wrong—this mess.

Shiki raises a hand and Shizuo notices when he settles only a little that his men are poised, ready to draw their guns because Shizuo's rants are something a product of anger should never escalate to. At least Shiki has the common courtesy to pardon him, giving too much as always like others do when there is no other option. "It is asking a lot from you," he admits, folding his hands together. "But as you can see, I need my informant in working order. I am offering you to not only clear your name but to find those responsible for torturing Izaya. Anything you can do to help him is appreciated by the Awakusu-kai, and you shall be repaid for anything you do." Shiki makes it clear, Shizuo knowing this well and despite the fact he wants to say no just because of the flea he can't and it singes the back of his throat. All he can do is numbly nod, eyes falling to the ground where he stubs out his cigarette with his fingers hanging in the space between his legs and leaving the remains in the ashtray.

There's nothing else to do. Nothing else but to accept this because Shizuo knows it's better to do this than ignore it any longer. He can't keep pretending that it's going to be fine and blow over so soon, not with murder and arson. All the things piling up against him and the quiet acceptance is apparent in his voice. "If you can do what you agree to, then fine." His temper flares in warning and Shiki watches him, polite honor keeping him from the subtle reactions Shizuo sees in the guys behind him. He's honestly forgotten once or twice by now that they're still there, not caring either way. There is nothing else to say on his part and Shiki picks up on this, easily moving the conversation forward while Shizuo processes the agreement he has just signed on to.

"The warehouse where Izaya was held was an empty one in an abandoned lot." Recounting details and no pictures unlike what Celty and Shinra have seen and Shiki has only seen a few of the pictures Shinra has sent to him, disturbing images indeed. "It's easy to go there and not be noticed. No police patrols nearby because it's a neighborhood surrounding it filled with small-time gangs, drug dealers, and other types police don't have the time to get to. Even though the warehouse has been burned down it does not mean there isn't any evidence." Shiki hums to himself, Shizuo listening to him and anger on wavering lengths of rise too high to breathe deeply and too low to get rid of the weights in his chest. The sensations are part of being a monster like this.

Shiki mulls over the details, recalling the scenes that have been broadcast all over Ikebukuro. There is only so much he can do to keep the story from going national and so far it hasn't been easy. "Punks and other brats go there. From the color gangs or whatever they do nowadays. Going from the wounds Izaya received," Shiki pauses, glancing at Shizuo for the search of a genuine reaction and finding muted confusion—meaning he doesn't know, he doesn't know—and continuing on while saving the details for another time. It's not his place. "The main culprits would be amateur at the job. No self-respecting yakuza or hit man would torture without a reason, or to be as sloppy as the ones who tortured Orihara were. An amateur style would suggest a gang member, or even members from one of the gangs in Ikebukuro."

"You saying a bunch of kids beat up the flea?" Shizuo's casual interruption goes without any harsh look but Shiki's glance at him is something out of the ordinary, despite the man himself being as polite as possible. "That doesn't even sound like it could happen. The flea's an idiot, but he can protect himself against kids." In which Shizuo doesn't understand how this can all happen from _kids_ doing this to _the_ Orihara Izaya, the most annoying bastard in all of Japan and the known universe who regularly escapes from Shizuo's fights. Being taken down by a bunch of kids and then to unknown tortures, what kind of pathetic would he have to be in order to just be kidnapped and dragged away without setting it up himself?

"It's not as easy as it sounds, Heiwajima-san." Shiki makes a sound that fails to be a sigh but something akin to a noise of disappointment or frustration. Which doesn't make sense even if Shizuo knows any better or more about Shiki and what he uses Izaya for. It's none of his business, so he won't think so far as to jump to conclusions. The wariness of being near any of these punks is more than unsettling and enough to deal with going by the splits in his fingers from picking himself apart when Celty isn't watching. "Izaya was in a...compromised position at the time. From my information sources, he was outnumbered by weapons and manpower. Even though he likes to see himself as invincible, he hardly qualifies."

Shizuo snorts, knowing the flea _would_ think something along the lines, calling himself a god in the false convincing he uses when Shizuo could hardly bother to give a damn unless if kicking the flea's ass. But since he doesn't know much and doesn't think he wants to know more about someone he doesn't care about, then it shouldn't matter like gripping him and waiting to spring at something just to settle the uneven bursts of energy. Every breath is starting to grow heavier. "So some brats attacked him and set the warehouse on fire. No one goes there so it's easy for them to hide like the bugs they are." Feasting on fleas doesn't sound right but neither does Izaya needing blood and unresponsive—why does he want to know these things?

Nodding, Shiki reclines and rolls a shoulder with a pop. "Izaya was subjected to enough to leave him immobilized. If permanently, it would be better to kill him." Shizuo's eyes narrow dangerously and a growl sets low in his throat but Shiki has his men trained to be obedient, no emotion when he takes the glare and explains himself in half circles unlike Izaya's full circle spinning tales and weaving lies whenever he breathes. "There's no use to have a lifestyle like his if he can't recover. This is no time to be considering your rivalry with him." Shiki waves a hand and that means the discussion is over and this is good because Shizuo doesn't want to hear it anyway. Having the flea die by someone else's hand...who would? Who would be the one to choke him? Or snap his neck? Stab him? Slit his throat so that he gargles on his own bad blood on the floor while he's paralyzed or something? The only person, Shizuo knows this because he's made the claim, allowed to kill the flea and stamp out the bug's life is _him._

Whether the declaration of claiming the flea's death for his own taking or the fact that he's thinking of all the ways to kill the bug is concerning and or formidable is debatable. Maybe even he is becoming the monster—no, that's not right. Just stop _thinking_ for once.

"Izaya was beaten," Shiki suddenly starts after the quiet has been ignored in the corner of Shizuo's mind focusing more on the thoughts that keep spinning themselves and the frustration of being locked up in the underground with the smell of fear, disgust, and death that reminds him even more of the disgusting smile Izaya has. "Stabbed, burned with cigarettes, doused with gasoline and set on fire." The cigarette in the ashtray feels sick and blackened with the smell of flesh burning. Something slick and oily curls in his throat and sticks around like cotton.

"Why the hell are you telling me this?" Shizuo asks, incredulous—confused angered raging silence—and or disgusted. He has to know, doesn't he? Make it even for thinking of putting an end to the flea who can't even defend himself—_set on fire_—and then these punks, just kids, rip him to shred and—_like a fish hung to dry_—with the kind of disgust that lingers when Shizuo can't think of anything else. His cigarettes feel sour and ugly, knowing the taint of the flesh of a monster as a bloodsucking parasite and burning means imagining the screams if they're even possible from someone like Izaya, if they take the smile from his face and make the claim that Izaya is _theirs._

He hates the idea of something so stupid. "Either find out here or later, Heiwajima-san. I'm only telling you a small extent of what he has gone through, and why I value our deal so highly." Which makes sense in the morbid curiosity of being wrong about this and that and the fact Izaya is filled with monster blood right now and probably becoming something horrible if he still lives at this point. "I don't know everything that happened. Shinra, your friend, has maintained the confidentiality of his condition. All I know is whether or not he lives or dies." It can't be true because he sounds like a snake and too confident in the air going sterile and Shizuo's thoughts are all-consuming and assaulting every frontier of rational thought. It's better to keep his mouth shut and bite his tongue because chewing on his cheek is obvious and the scabs are trying to heal from the razor-like gashes. He's never known to have nervous habits.

"As for a start, I will be sending out my men to survey the area where the warehouse was. They're already gathering information now about the color gangs that have been nearby. I cannot risk you being seen by the public as of yet, due to the warrant out for your arrest. For your apartment, there are men stationed there and will be cleaning it of any possible evidence to link you to the crime." Before Shizuo can protest angrily that he has nothing to do with this—of course guilty as charged to only thinking of Izaya and the hatred that burns like confusion in black holes—Shiki maintains eye contact and speaks fluidly, unaffected and possibly something more than Shizuo can surmise he is now. "Any bloodstains, anything that can link you back to the crime. You don't know if the real people who did it had visited your apartment or set you up. It's highly like they did, so extra precautions will be taken. Your things will be packed and kept here for your use. What I need from you in return is information on anything that you have noticed in the past several weeks linked to gang activity."

Shizuo bites a snarl back when fed up of hearing the parts about bloodstains and being guilty of something he hasn't done, fingernails starting to bite into his palms again and Shiki makes a good show of pretending not to notice the white of his knuckles. "I don't care what they do. As long as they leave me alone, I don't bother with punks." Blond hair, blond hair they said on the news found at the scene of the crime Celty thinks he doesn't hear and it's bleached like _his_ so—"But there's this one I've seen where the flea hangs out. Bleached hair like mine," he picks at a strand of his hair and Shiki suddenly looks interested. "I've seen him around Izaya's place when I go kick his ass at his apartment. Doesn't talk much. Wears a yellow scarf."

The silence in the room comes back as the temperature seems to plummet. Men glance at each other, then to Shiki who considers this.

"Interesting."

* * *

Celty doesn't expect the feeling of her fingers buzzing and her screen darkening—almost dropping her PDA in shock after days and days of silence maintained by playing around with functions on her phone just to keep herself hopeful for something, like waiting for Shinra to start talking again even if he's not supposed to. She's concerned about so much, swirling around in her room where shadows start to cover the walls and any of Shiki's men stay far away when she doesn't think about containing them. Shooter sits in her room, bored from the days without moving and staying in one place out of use like catching the dust in the air and smoke thickening with boredom and worry. She thinks constantly about Shinra and how Izaya's doing, what the outside world is doing now that Shizuo has become a wanted man in Ikebukuro. Her thoughts run wild and rampant when she can't sleep at night, plagued constantly by the silence and not listening to Shinra's bouts of professing his undying love and awkward comments and the other things that couples do. Or, what she thinks they do.

Nothing helps, though she knows it's for her best friend. But she can't help but feel frustrated and lonely, Shizuo disconnecting from the world for so long because he's angry and he knows everything now and choosing to do what he wants. After all, he's still mad at her for not telling him who his blood went to and she sees it as why he's angry at her but wants him to see that he just _saved_ Izaya's life. Even if it doesn't mean much to him and she already knows how important it is to Shinra to keep his friend alive.

So many things to consider, her head spins if she had one and so her smoke tendrils twine and coil for her.

All until her phone buzzes. _[Celty, it's an emergency. I need more blood to transplant to Izaya and Shizuo's the closest thing he's got for a chance. You need to get out of there and come here—he doesn't have much time.]_ And then all of her senses go into overdrive while shadows explode off the walls, gathering back to her and soon helmet snapping on and hearing Shooter whinny impatiently. Her horse knows what's going on, feeling the emotions conflicting snapping in half then rebuilding in twisting patterns of not knowing what lies beyond the walls and having to grab Shizuo and _explain_ again when she has little support to do so.

[What happened!? Shinra, I need to know because Shizuo's still angry over figuring out that he donated blood to Izaya.] Celty looks for Shizuo, twisting and torn on what to do because she wants to help and she wants to keep her friends and she wants to go home and pretend this never happened but it does and Izaya is in need of blood for some urgent reason. She doesn't want to go home and find Izaya dead and Shinra (in all states of panic to shock and beyond she can't think of applying to her doctor) taking her by surprise. So the best thing to do is to get to Shizuo's door, knocking a little more frantically than usual trying to convey the emotions she can never express beyond trying so hard not to fail conveying them.

_[Internal bleeding—his spleen ruptured and he's not doing well at all. I'm trying to drain it but he's losing too much blood. Please, Celty, get here soon.]_ Just like that, her heart drops into her stomach and dissolves a little more.

But Shizuo's not there, not answering like he always does (from gruff responses to being a little softer in the mornings because they're trying to make light of the situation) and she gets down the hall, past the men who turn to the sides and avoid her as she runs and Shooter starts to follow behind, getting some stares but this is an _emergency_ and there's no time to wait. The only place Shizuo can be that she's seen him at is Shiki's office—exactly where he's been only a couple times in the past and things have never ended well but she has to do this.

[I need Shizuo, now.] Celty types and holds it up to the bodyguards that don't move away at the door to the office, shoulders trembling from trying to keep herself stronger and not to get angry and destroy something like the addictive urge Shizuo has. [Please. It's an emergency. Tell Shiki-san that Shizuo needs to donate blood to Orihara Izaya, or he's going to die.] She has no idea if someone can die from a spleen rupturing or even what a spleen is but by how urgent Shinra sounds she knows it's not good to sit and wait. But keeping a straightened composure makes it harder as seconds tick by and the grunt reads her message, hours passing when he talks to the other and then finally decides to knock on the door.

"Shiki-sama, Courier-san says that Shizuo-san needs to go. The informant is involved." A little crash of relief but nothing to stop her fingers from trembling and then she hears a voice rising in the room—knowing Shizuo's voice and her thoughts are hurricanes colliding when she doesn't want to wait on making decisions. She knows it's not fair to Shizuo but if Shinra can't do this then—no, no, no; calm down think think think stop worrying stop _panicking_ when everything is going to be fine and she can just breathe a little deeper if she just—then the door swings open behind the two men and Shizuo is there, looking angry but muted when he sees Celty and there isn't any time to debate this. Just something, typed quickly and nearly pleading when Shooter is racing out to where the exit is by now.

Shizuo's brown eyes are dark and glitter with anger she can see darkening with rage and fury lacing together combining into something heinous and she knows not to interfere in these kinds of moods. All she wants to do is apologize and fix this mess but even she can't and feeling this weak has never had such an impact before. Watching explosions of stars in supernovas crashing in his eyes when he considers his options taking light-years of waiting and waiting despite having no time left. By the time a decision comes, black holes are forming with rage climbing through the creases of Shizuo's balled fists.

Near black holes, time falls apart. "I can't believe I'm doing this." He sighs with a huff, giving one look to Celty that demands she knows exactly what she's doing and what the reason is. "Come on, get me out of here. I'm sick of this damn place." Shiki may hear the foul language but at this point it never matters beyond turning back and starting a run, because she doesn't know if time is ticking to an end if there isn't a black hole to stop time for long enough.

The bodyguards clear out of the way, either Celty's monstrous appearance or Shizuo's anxiety-inducing rage that surfaces with every wrong look and not trying to be the attention that comes his way. They've always stuck out, even more on a soundless motorcycle with a helmet on Shizuo and encasing him in a black bodysuit to keep him disguised. She can only hope she can do her best to keep herself together and try to keep Shizuo from getting into more trouble for all the wrong reasons. Monsters never sit well with humans who flinch away or ask too many questions.

The way to the apartment is silent and kept to the shadows; she doesn't need to be discovered with Shizuo on her bike and certainly not now when the city is starting to hush from the warehouse fires and starting up with new rumor mills. Surprising they're not crafted by Izaya himself but these days she doesn't know what to call the new Ikebukuro other than out of control and more frightening than she wants to admit if the glances she gets are as wolfish or too curious as she sees. Maybe she's just seeing things or seeing things as a human would see monsters all around.

At least Shizuo has the decency not to ask any more. Not yet, at least, with Celty's shoulders shaking down to the bones in her fingers tapping on her keyboard as soon as Shooter makes it to her apartment and she wants to feel the comfort of seeing Shinra again but there is only a small flame bursting apart. It's just not fair (nothing is ever intended to be for a creature such as herself in a world polluted with humans) that she has to keep doing this to herself in such a short period of time while stretching her friendship with Shizuo thin.

[We're here,] her thoughts are as breathless as the empty shudders of her heart trying to fix itself except there is no blood in her veins to carry any such emotions like the ones she feels now. Shinra comes out soon enough, Shizuo oddly quiet but filling the room with rage and fixing his gaze on Shinra when his face is contorted into all frowns and regret and quiet silence filling the room until he can start thinking clearly. Everything has been hard on them, she knows by watching how her relationships are straining under so much stress.

"I need you hooked up immediately. We don't have much time." Shinra urges both to follow him closely behind as his coat swishes with his faster steps, back into the guest room where Celty remembers the sight of gore and things that still haunt her nightmares when she can't keep herself asleep. Shizuo may hate Izaya but he's not so stupid as to make a fuss now, especially noticing how Celty can't keep still and Shinra doesn't crack any stupid jokes or puns, meaning the serious air just makes things worse.

Seconds turn into blurry actions of barely registering the cold of alcohol and the sting of a needle, tubing connecting from his arm to another and Celty watching as an observer of it all, Shinra setting up needlework and then blood starts to flow, one line to one life counting the seconds ticking by to finally slow down a little bit. And take in Izaya—Izaya, lying on a bed unconscious and not the flea seen on the street but so different it takes Shizuo back and away from here, trying to remember a time like this but he's never seen a monster look so vulnerable that the worst part is he can't help but think if it's true for monsters to have weaknesses.

Izaya's not supposed to have weaknesses. He's supposed to be invincible, indestructible, irritating and the constant pest who never learns. Not lying in a cot pale as the sheets on his bed starting to stain with red blood and everywhere. Shizuo doesn't remember seeing so much blood from one person after the sheets on the left side of Izaya are thoroughly soaked and if they drip then they're mocking everything Shinra has been trying to do. Shizuo watches, almost as an out-of-body experience when staring at the pale color of skin that is supposed to belong to a flea and not a dead man, blue veins poking through and clearly visible when they strain against the skin to be seen and meaning that there must be some life left if Shinra's trying this hard by biting into his lip hard enough the room can cover the scent of blood. There's more than Shizuo ever needs or wants to see and it's all coming from the wrong place.

Submerged under water—that's the only way to describe watching Izaya's chest meekly rise and shudder as it falls, so barely there that the air around him could break so easily from trying to hold just one breath in and pump another, not noticing the more blood leaving him as he starts to get lightheaded and the anger is still in his skin, mocking and taunting when it bubbles low in his gut but can't rise any higher. Not with the walls of smooth cold stone and feeling empty when it comes to broken bodies and watching someone he's supposed to hate bleed out all over the place. Especially with monster blood being pumped into him, as uncomfortable as the thought is of truly making the flea a monster and never considering that he's overreacting if being ridiculous is so much pettier than trying to—watching Izaya breathe feels like watching through someone else's eyes.

Everything feels out of body to him. From each breath he takes, the sounds of a heart monitor giving a warning whine as levels drop and Shinra's muttered swears as he watches Shizuo and Shizuo doesn't pay attention. Not when he watches his enemy breathe the air he's giving and watching blood sink into him as if it's the only thing keeping him alive. Something so taunting and haughty, unable to be beaten—reduced to the hollow flesh and chinks in armor of rusted blood transfusions and everything going wrong. There's no story and no reason to why things happen but Shizuo knows they do. There have always been things happening for no reason like watching with the feeling of anger in his stomach, distaste making him ill but not enough to kill the flea off when it's not the flea he's looking at.

It has to be someone else. It has to be. Shizuo can't see Izaya any other way when his fingers are limp and lithe, stiffening from lack of use and cold because his warmer, thicker fingers brush against them to make sure that this is Izaya. Still the same old calluses he remembers from skinny hands and holding switchblades far too often for Shizuo's liking. Still cold, pale digits that mean trying to break down the city just to watch them twitch and still in sadistic victory of winning this stupid little game. Everything looks the same if he stares long enough and if he stares too long it doesn't make sense anymore. Even his head starts to hurt, beginning with a pounding sensation and still he finds it doesn't compare to experiencing whatever this is where he can't seem to find himself in this mess.

And Izaya, cold as a stone and the loud buzz of a heart monitor ringing in Shizuo's ears means the forceful pull of a needle out of his arm, a bandage with a cotton ball slapped on and sealed tightly before Shinra says something and Celty is holding onto Shizuo's arm, escorting him out because Shinra is apologizing for taking too much and not realizing that Shizuo isn't in the best of health. Which is a lie, because Shizuo feels fine and there shouldn't be anything wrong except not being able to focus or come back to the present reality. Maybe from the lack of sleep, maybe from the days being cramped in one room explosive with his thoughts of self-depreciating nature and always on the constant attack. Just how they always are.

A PDA is thrust into his face, seconds or minutes later. Only then does he realize he's sitting on the couch, and Celty looks a little calmer, but worse for wear. [I'm sorry, Shizuo. I didn't want to make you do this but I couldn't help it. Shinra didn't have any other options, but I swear I'll make it up to you.] Processing the message takes a little longer than normal and then considering it, feeling numb and the cold sensation of pins in his chest is something he hasn't experienced in a long time, especially over the incident of seeing an old enemy not as he should be.

It's interesting, what about Izaya is so different that sticks in Shizuo's sleep-deprived brain, messing with his thoughts blaring loud and now down to dull white noise, buzzing when he tries to think. His fingers are skinnier, bruised and yellow-brown, pale with rising blue veins and waxy like a doll's. The rest of him Shizuo doesn't remember as much. Maybe there's a reason why or he doesn't pay attention to too many details when it comes to Izaya. Hating him has to be different, more so in this situation because Shizuo doesn't want to see himself as the monster to be the one to kill Izaya when Izaya is not Izaya. He looks almost like Izaya, save for the wounds and the purple coloring on his throat when Shizuo manages a look or two but then the rest is staring at the wall and waiting for some realization to hit him. Something to snap him out of being in a trance and feeling anger but not holding it tightly like it grips him.

"It's fine," Shizuo says, breaking the silence and his voice sounds a little different by a tone he can't place. Not sure of what exactly he's seen in less than half an hour. "Don't worry about it for now." Even he doesn't feel like himself. Nothing really does, seeing that much blood and thinking that it's only his fault for—trying to pick up the sounds of Celty's typing, forcing him to come back to the real world breaths at a time. Something feels wrong.

[What you saw, Shizuo,] Celty types, trying to make her words carefully put as to not incite any extreme reaction from him because the room feels like a ticking time bomb and she doesn't know the answer to what is happening to Shizuo or why. Seeing Izaya herself has left her shaken, down to the chill in her fingers still misspelling words as she types and correcting them over. [Was not the Izaya you know. Please don't be angry at him—he didn't ask for this.] She says it out of the goodness in her own heart she knows she has and that pumps the emotions she feels and cares about Izaya being human despite the wariness still remaining stubbornly. [Are you going to be okay, Shizuo?] She never says why she asks, finding it better not to say much.

"Fine," and somehow they both know that it's not exactly the truth.

He can't stop thinking about what happens if he gives blood and then Izaya—that Izaya, though, because the Izaya isn't the flea and therefore—pale as death, silent and cold and empty of any teasing laughs or smirking while he grins with malicious glee, thinking the world and all of its inhabitants belong to him while taunting Shizuo. This isn't the same and the empty feeling that comes may as well be from being confused, having too much input and not enough output when Shizuo has never been good at describing emotions and to see Izaya and to _help_ him means more than going beyond the first nod of agreeing to do this and figuring out what exactly he's gotten himself in to. No amount of information from what he does know will help him. There are questions already forming in his head, blistering and swelling in the darkness from white to black noise and taking a juice carton from Celty who has been tapping but never shows him her screen.

That's alright—for now. Shizuo can't (think understand know recognize himself in the face of seeing more than what meets the eye) come up with much to say. Life has always been chaotic, so it should be fine.

(It should have been him.)

* * *

_Cliffhanger! Hahaha, you poor unfortunate souls, now watching as another chance Izaya had falls to waste. Poor thing, I just hurt him so much. _

_Thank you for reading._


	7. Counting Stars

What a stupid thought—immediately slapped out of mind with a foul shake of his head and the world around him becomes a little clearer, Celty coming to shape resting in a loveseat that Shizuo hasn't realized has been there at all and then wondering how long he's been spacing out for. So far it's only three in the afternoon verging on four and the day has gone far, far away and into some way Shizuo doesn't want to follow. Then he starts remembering things, from random tidbits of boring afternoons to Izaya and why one arm was covered up so tightly in bandages and blankets while being in the guest room for only a short period of time. Seeing as he can't focus on much he tries to ignore the rampage of thoughts coming to mind, he scowls and slurps the juice—watching Celty jump, which is pretty funny even if her PDA spills onto the floor.

There's no reason to talk. Not at all, going by the silence hanging over the apartment and the lack of caring for the bitter talk that awaits outside where everyone else is searching for him and the monster who helped him get away. The poison of something so easily thought—_it should have been him_—doesn't come from anywhere at all and doesn't make half as much sense. Why him? What would he do to deserve whatever happened to something that's not the flea? A broken little replica barely breathing and shaky, a lily throat stained with purple bruising he can see and the lack of red eyes glaring back at him, glittering dangerously. There are the images staining into his eyes when he closes them, haunting little wisps of what should be and what starts to twist when he can't think straight. The headache humming in his forehead means it's time to give it a rest.

No word from Shinra means they can only believe something went right for once. Messy bloodstains tend to leave Shizuo a little more than disgusted and on the verge of staring at himself, wondering and knowing with the grim certainty he's more than capable of doing anything that comes to mind. Just a little blood, soaking a bed and something that isn't even human lying in blankets tucked in and _dead_ to the world, even him. Nothing seems plausible but at the same time practically anything can happen and it will whether or not it makes sense. Things Shizuo hates, especially the ones he can't control because he hates knowing he can't control more than he wants to.

He's not tired. A hand raking through his blond hair and he's not tired at all, not at almost four in the afternoon on what day of not remembering much. There hasn't been much need to and at this rate he feels even more like a mindless monster, forgetting the days like forgetting himself and forgetting why he's angry in the first place besides finding something that looks like Izaya and makes him sick. Reasons don't exist for why it should affect him the way it does but they still are there and Shizuo feels the anger from before turn into a ticklish feeling of nausea and salt combining at the back of his throat. Sweet tastes of juice won't save him, but the comfort is still there to grasp onto and wait. Seeing as that's all he can do, Celty not shivering as much when she tries to stay still and pretend she's fine. Shizuo knows her and he knows what happens with so much going on.

Resting his head against the couch he forces his thoughts to clear out, focusing on squeezing gently with his fingers on the juice box, not enough to make it explode but something to focus on for the purpose of having something to do. Headaches are annoying and dizzy and one thing he can't fight off easily like a cold or an injury. They sting, they ache, they make everything worse than it is and thinking is one of those few things that looks easy enough to control but is beyond his longest reach and simply not caring. Always thinking, even if simple-minded and wondering about too many things at once.

Silence is harder to get used to when removed from familiar environments and at the point of waiting for monster blood to make miracles or end the ones already in place. If they exist, which Shizuo has never fancied himself to believe in due to the simple case of being the contradiction of the century. Nothing to do with magic and faith and believing in things that don't exist and don't need expressed opinions like certain idiotic insects like to spout at random intervals of taking time out of Shizuo's day. Besides that, there isn't much to do. Sitting on a couch and the TV is out of the question, obvious by the ring in his ears of thinking too much and not letting go of what he can't shake off so easily. This time it's Izaya, in the ten or so minutes that have passed since silence sticks in the air and weighs heavily in throats and thumping heartbeats.

And then there's the possibility of having simply _(too much)_ to think about one thing at a time.

* * *

Shinra has been careful in his proceedings. After a generous donation, once again and not sure how Celty will handle Shizuo's rage and at least satisfied to not notice any crashing noises or something suspiciously like his apartment collapsing to distract him from watching and waiting. Waiting is always one of the worst processes there is, simply having to stand, sit, stare, measure, look, glance, rinse and repeat and make sure he can swallow the dryness in his mouth to a tolerable level of sticky uncomfortable dried saliva and knowing that this is one of his most difficult patients by far. Worse than the bullet wounds, worse than anything he's ever had to deal with and in short pulling the long haul just to keep things moving. So far, Shinra crosses his fingers and hopes for no more damage out of nowhere like suddenly walking in to the sound of heart failure and internal bleeding.

He's not sure how it starts or why things happen but they do and he takes action, trying to clean up the spilling blood from a ruptured spleen and trying to keep himself professional while glancing one too many times at the pallid face that is supposed to be Izaya, afraid to even open his eyes and now worth giving up on for a ruptured spleen (having been enlarged for the past couple of days and something Shinra has been keeping an eye on) with no symptoms until ugly bruising and cutting skin because there is no time to waste. An oxygen mask, filling with anesthetic over Izaya's face and counting the luck he doesn't have besides his wonderful Celty coming for him (and mainly to help Izaya) to bring. All with her shaking shoulders and knowing she's worried because she's the gentle sort of person with firm beliefs in not letting anyone suffer.

It's hard on everyone. Mainly Izaya, safely unconscious and operated on in an impromptu environment because there's no time to waste, draining blood and watching blood volume drop in amounts that threaten his own heart to stop. Knowing that Celty couldn't fail him is the only thing to keep his hopes up and she never does, even with as angry as Shizuo is and then falling silent by the time Shinra hooks him up and sews up the spleen and the damage done hoping to make it reversible and fixed because he can't just watch everything he's worked for fall apart. That's not how life is supposed to go.

Izaya is supposed to make it through. Going by the returning color to his skin, from a waxy color of a corpse to somewhat sickly and a cross of too ill to consider waking up. This is far different than anything Shinra has imagined, never thinking of having to save his friend countless times like some sort of game and then try not to let emotions—some of them, maybe not all—intercept in everything he does and getting involved in more than he can handle. All of the blood staining the sheets he'll have to clean, copious amounts in more than anyone ever needs to see in one day, it's all easier to focus on the basics of treat and clean, and then waiting even longer for any results. But since Izaya's not supposed to be sick like this again and still in recovery that means he'll have to adjust painkiller doses and try to figure out a balance of getting Izaya to live for once and not have the threat of dying for at least another year or so. However long it takes, just not like this.

Monitoring his progress is going well, feeling fatigue trying to set in even though it's late afternoon turning into evening. All day has been going fine, just without Izaya waking and he should've seen the signs earlier before shrugging them off and then coming back to find this—he can't help but start the blame in his head to wrap his mind around. After all this time with his only company being Izaya and said company not being the Izaya he's known and used to it's harder to adjust. Even with as long as Izaya has been here, lying in bed, under Shinra's care, Shinra knows he can't get used to it. Not with someone so deadly in a state of being so breakable in a matter of seconds.

Back to watching Izaya's heart rate rise steadily, slow and at times not as smooth as he'd prefer. Sometimes it drops and he watches, trying to massage some warmth back into Izaya's bluish fingers and careful of the stiffness over palms to at least reassure himself. He knows only so little about Izaya and what's happened and sitting on it for a week or more (honestly not counting the days, they all feel like forever) and trying to go as slow as Izaya needs. It's the least he can do, driving himself to the brink of madness and feeling the first fiery licks of knowing he's in over his head and that's how it is, in this line of business and this profession of picking the wrong friends. More so when said friends, or friend, has been under his care for so long and he's barely gotten anywhere except in circles turning in his mind at night that he has to come in because he can't sleep and sometimes he talks to Izaya when realizing that Izaya doesn't sleep well either. All the painkillers to blame, messing with his circadian rhythm and leaving them both exhausted.

Four thirty rolls around. Izaya's back in the safe range, at the lowest part of it when his heart thumps and it's weak but it's there, meaning he's looking alright and Shinra knows the stitches in his spleen are the only substitute he has for now. In the worst possible scenario he'd have to remove it and he'd rather not, all the trauma Izaya has been through has been more than enough for him. With that arm of his, smashed to bits and slowly healing, Shinra doesn't know for sure whether or not it can be saved. He's been watching the healing progress and isn't satisfied at all, wanting to at least exhaust all options before having to make a costly decision that could easily hurt Izaya even more.

So far nothing new is happening and Izaya looks safe enough, having clean sheets back on the bed after careful maneuvers and the bloodied ones tossed out to be burned. They're not salvageable at this point and he doesn't care, trying not to disrupt Izaya's broken body to clean up the place and get rid of the stench of burning copper.

Well, he can always go out and see how his guests are doing.

* * *

"So..." Shizuo starts after Shinra leaves, attempts at conversation only one-sided because both of them are too tired to question. Shizuo stays silent the entire time Shinra is there, out of necessity or practicality and he doesn't say much except to let him know if Shizuo feels faint. Celty has been watching him, he knows, while slowly building himself back up from forgetting himself and everything around him for that time period in the guest room. There should be no reason why he suddenly lost himself and there isn't an answer he can find—infuriating only at the slightest annoyance. So many thoughts course through the thick blood clotting his veins and going nowhere just like they are until tomorrow morning. Police patrols have been active and Celty needs to be careful—neither of them can afford the risk. Shinra is dangerous because of any new clients, and the fact that he doesn't want to endanger his beloved so as to ruin everything.

"The flea—Izaya," Shizuo corrects himself automatically and his tongue still feels numb like his brain when he tries to form coherent thoughts. Everything left in him is gone and sitting on the floor, dripping into a puddle of blood on the floor from soaked sheets and covering too much to be satisfying. "It's really that bad, huh." His voice lowers not out of necessity but because when Celty glances at him he can feel the lack of her eye staring straight through him, looking for an answer to questions he's asking himself and doesn't have an answer to. It's best, in the awkward approach of conversation, to clear his throat and try to continue talking. Everything feels the sting of rubbing alcohol on an open wound.

(Without the salt this time.)

He swallows a couple more times, shaking his head. There are no words to convey the thoughts in his head nor the feelings that drift and reattach into morphing shapes of unfamiliar territory and the uncertainty of wanting to know what limits they reach—beyond the bedside of an enemy with too much blood coming from him and a choker on his throat—and root themselves firmly in his chest. Nothing has ever affected him this much, not even when he was a child and the lady in the store and the guilt of doing too much for trying to do something right and this time he even doesn't have a part. But what if he does and he doesn't know besides being framed for more than he could possibly try to do, more than—"Uh," sounding so _stupid_ and not knowing where to begin with the line of questioning and whether or not Celty wants to hear it. "Is he... Can you..." He shakes his head; none of this is working to set his thoughts straight.

Celty looks for the text to voice function on her phone. Satisfied, she types and feels it's better to try and keep things normal, even with just letting Shizuo hear her thoughts instead of having to strain himself more on what she means. It's harder, trying to convey herself through messages instead of her own voice, a luxury she can't afford. ["Izaya's very injured. I don't know if he's going to make it to morning, but Shinra said he was hopeful."] And really, that's where it should stop now and she should suggest and early time for bed so they can both calm down and reassess—until realizing that everything in that category is pointless and she can't stop the poison of her own thoughts running from guilt to streaks of anxiety painting every word that lingers in her fingers.

["He was doing fine before, Shizuo."] She keeps typing as her fingers don't see a point in stopping until all of her thoughts come out and she can swallow the lump in her throat with the uncomfortable point being made that being unsure is unavoidable. ["He was recovering well, from what Shinra told me. And then he started acting strange recently, and before Shinra knew it Izaya was unconscious and his spleen had ruptured. But even before, he was communicating and understanding, just like—"] Abruptly ending her thoughts there she doesn't realize Shizuo is listening until she can calm herself down, gazing back but never meeting the stare of brown eyes, curiously waiting with a focus of seriousness she hasn't seen from him before.

Even when he was in the guest room, a strange mix of fear, anxiety, and too many nerves and colliding thoughts to realize Shizuo had stopped reacting completely to his surroundings (wondering if it's her fault because she's pushing too much on him, she doesn't want him to be hurt any more) and has to help him out and feels the guilt weighing heavily. In her fingers as she types, a padlock on her heart of trying to keep herself controlled. It's harder than she could ever believe it to be because she sees herself as an empathetic person and so when she sees pain, she feels too much of it when she can't fix what's wrong. Logically, she knows she can't always solve the issue at hand.

Shizuo sits with one arm folded, his head in his hand and gazing at the floor. Contemplating silently in dark eyes filled with dark waters. "And a bunch of kids did that to him, yeah? Beat him up, tie him down? What did they do to him to make him look like that?" Asking too much but not enough to start out with and go from there. Celty doesn't need to know, she looks tired enough and the room isn't big enough for more emotionally-charged arguments. All they need are agreements and something uplifting.

As far as Shizuo is concerned, miracles don't exist. Celty doesn't think the same way—she likes to be optimistic when it's the only thing she can hold on to as part of herself—but sometimes she finds herself running the same stream of darker thoughts.

["I don't know, Shizuo. All I know is that I received a text message from Mikado-kun, saying that his friend, Kida-kun, had needed help at a warehouse that had caught on fire."] She misses the sudden snap of Shizuo's head moving from palm of his hand to listening attentively, teeth starting the preliminary grind of anticipation when remembering negotiations with Shiki and maybe Celty doesn't know as much as she should or should not—it's a dangerous game to try to gamble with and with nothing left to lose—surely she should know more than he does. ["B-But when I got there, I found burning warehouses. Nothing. And just as I was about to leave I looked down and noticed a trail of blood. Thick and it was so...something else that I kept following it, even though it made me sick and I couldn't look but I _knew_ I had to and..."] Celty's shoulders start to shake but Shizuo knows better. They both do; comfort is not accessible until the job is done.

Shizuo is staring intently at her, waiting and watching for anything more than the upset shudder in her shoulders to give away anything else and waiting because he doesn't feel it himself but like a coil in his throat, digging into the soft tissues of his organs and extracting blood. ["I found him, I found Izaya. His clothes weren't even recognizable because he was covered in blood and he smelt like blood and so many other things and I couldn't stand it, but when I found him there I found Kida-kun at first and he was holding onto Izaya, asking me to help him. When I tried to help Kida-kun, he turned and left."] Celty looks bitterly on with the fondness of recalling a distant nightmare coming back to haunt. She doesn't know the extent of Shizuo's fists tightening into his hands and that the tired atmosphere is shattered with all delicate feelings of not wanting to overstep boundaries. ["I took him back to Shinra, and then the news came on and someone had put the blame on you. I don't know what happened to him or why it happened—he was just so awful and I couldn't stand looking at him, not with his arm hanging like it didn't belong and so much blood everywhere."]

Celty suddenly stops, shaking her head frantically and then her hands come up to the empty space above her throat, Shizuo knows he can't help her when she just needs to cope with everything. She misses Shinra, she misses her friendship with Shizuo, she misses not seeing Izaya, a person she's supposed to dislike so strongly she wouldn't think about twice and then suddenly bathed in blood and looking so pale death looks shades darker. She just wants to go back to the way things were, even if it's a pipe dream set on fire and caught in a drum of oil mixed with gasoline.

It will never be the same again.

Apologizing, Shizuo thinks, will be awkward. But he glances at Celty, gaze softening for his best friend and he can't think of the right words to say—there isn't much he can do besides make things worse and he's done enough by now, surely—and wanting to isn't enough to fix what isn't right. So he starts hoarse and tries to keep going, connecting dots and making too many things clear and more questions start to crop up (thinking of Izaya must be dangerous so why is he doing this again to himself) and occupy his mind. Another night of no sleep is easy enough to achieve without it, anyway. "You said that kid, Kida. What was he doing there? And why'd he run off?"

There could be several reasons why. Maybe the kid hates Izaya—can't blame him, possibly more than Shizuo would but considering stopping to help him and then realizing he can't decide on that—and didn't want much to do with him. But if the kid doesn't have any injuries like Izaya, then it's definitely suspicious and he's the only one close enough to Izaya to know any better than anyone else. Which means he can't just let him walk free until he gets some answers when they're not worth half as much as waiting for his enemy to wake up from falling back onto the brink of losing every chance he's gotten from the people who are the only ones to care all that much.

Sad reality, really. Chilled lower than a few degrees below blue patches of skin and heavy bandages with blankets that feel too cold to be useful enough. White and purple and black mixed with too much red to make a picture of perfect framing for Shizuo to take the bait, whatever it is to keep him in this so that the fuckers responsible can get away and laugh because they _know_ Shizuo hates Izaya. And surely he does, but not the Izaya lying in a bed and bleeding to death when that is more than Shizuo can handle and he hates violence even more than anything in the world, but these punks are coming up to the top of the list to float belly-up and bloat with water from the bottom of Tokyo Bay. They'll be lucky enough, Shizuo sneers to himself, if he lets them fall so close. If it's up to him and he knows it will be, the ones responsible will never see the light of day again.

But then his fists clench and he remembers why he's here in the first place. Blood doesn't draw, he knows he's given enough for a life in return. Celty has been watching him, getting over the tremor in her shoulders that Shizuo knows but not why he can't fix it with a few simple words like Shinra can try to. He's never been good at these kinds of things and the guilt means wanting to not try at all, numbly sticking back to himself and shrinking back as to not cause any more damage.

An unlikely story to ever stay stable. ["I didn't see anything on him. All I saw was blood, Shizuo. Do you know him?"] Celty looks interested and really, she shouldn't be but there's no stopping the thoughts that shoot at gunpoint through his skull and ricochet off the walls of his skull, cracking and screaming when they can't stop moving and forcing more to assault the fatty tissue of his brain boiling in the heat of a blood rage.

Shizuo chooses his words wisely and remembers the ache of a headache still there, limiting any expression of rage and sparing Shinra's poor couch for the meantime in the bloodless neutrality of pretending that he's fine, waiting for news from the other room while Shinra asks that they try and make themselves comfortable. Fine, fine—do as they want and keep waiting without news if Izaya is getting any better, any worse, anything at all to make Shizuo's thoughts stop acting cagey and fidgeting all over the place before they end up like a botched murder scene.

"The kid works for Izaya. If he's in on this, then it'd be a reason why he's not injured." His teeth grind, bones creaking under pressure but knowing only that he doesn't want to break everything until he breaks this kid's bones he tries to restrain himself to clawing at his legs. Celty winces, a tendril of shadow starting to crawl beneath his fingers and encourage him not to shed any more blood.

A monstrous habit for a monster. Celty doesn't know what to say, other than trying to assume that a high school student would be responsible for hurting Izaya and in the way she saw him, she sees him constantly and he doesn't let her sleep at times when she feels her heart is too heavy to hold on to for much longer. She can't say a word, (nothing about the disgust and the frustration and just wanting to help out more than a _monster_ can) so she doesn't and hopes that it will be enough for now. She can't wrap her head around it—no pun intended—and she doesn't think she wants to when she imagines Anri-chan, the sweetest of her friends and so soft-spoken that she could never be capable of hurting anyone, and then to imagine one of her friends, in the Yellow Scarves gang...

Everything, Celty decides, makes her stomach twist with the knife of guilt, disgust, and anxiety. ["I don't know, Shizuo. I really don't."] And it's all she can say, she's done for the night and Shizuo nods to himself, face expressing the many thoughts still lingering and they don't look like they're going away anytime soon. Celty excuses herself for bed with a wave, brushing past Shizuo on her way to Shinra's room since Shizuo will take hers, they've decided. But she stops, just as she walks past him and he feels the sudden gentle touch of reassurance on his shoulder, squeezing softly and with the silence, nothing feels as uncomfortable before when he knows that whether or not he looks up Celty is giving him the same encouraging look she always gives him when she knows that things aren't going right. Celty is something rare—a monster that looks like a monster but is more human than anyone else.

"Thanks," Shizuo murmurs in acknowledgment just as she leaves, the lingering pressure on his shoulder still there and his eyes slipping to close and block out the traces of before and the days of living in the confines of somewhere unfamiliar. He feels cagey, as soon as she leaves and the inner parts start to collapse standing on shaky columns never enough to breathe in normally and imagining—seeing _too much_ to take in and burying his fingers into his hair and pulling so hard that he can feel the tingling pain along the stinging, just waiting for something to come at him and threaten to knock him down. He doesn't feel the same at all, nothing feels right in itchy skin and swollen thoughts leaking with blood and too much everything else.

All there is to do is to sit and think, wallow in his own self-pity never being enough to match the sort of shame and unknown attachments that come when picturing Izaya again, his eyes straying to the guest room where all is quiet and Shizuo thinks it's better to not argue so much with himself. There's nothing to help him at all when he falls and pushes himself back down, face down and arguing with himself over the deal with Shiki, the mix of Izaya and what comes next and trying to hold on for one more night to his sanity slipping away from his fingers in a cruel game of testing his patience to the extreme and then kicking him back down. The least he can do is try not to grovel, there's no point and he's not so much of a lesser man as to do so—no reason, not when he's not the one injured and in pain, shedding blood like he's a man of nothing left to lose and not a man of skin and bones and still _clinging_ to the life he's sure he has. Not Izaya, not in the slightest of touching bandages and bruised skin and wondering how untouchable gods can be if they say they are and then fall from their thrones.

Reclining on the sofa and bringing his knees up, Shizuo knows that down the hall is the bedroom of Celty he gets to sleep in and pretend that he can, just like Celty can and probably Shinra now that he thinks about it, not wanting to think about the venom of having disgust and anger sucking him dry with replacing the monster blood in him with rage and feelings that he can't control, urges that don't go away when he breaks and breaks and breaks until he breaks and then shoves himself back together again. Cigarette nicotine, fights with fleas, and happy little faded memories weave in between his fingers as a reminder there is something for him. Something there has been since he's been here.

And he wonders if Izaya had anything in the first place.

* * *

Shinra sighs to himself for the umpteenth time tonight, clock ticking toward seven in the evening and alternating between watching Izaya and checking vitals to talking with Shizuo and Celty. All in all, he's more than exhausted but the fact that Izaya isn't awake yet makes him concerned with each hour that he doesn't wake. Perhaps it's simply because he's tired and his body _does_ desperately need all the rest it can get. Which Izaya is a master at ignoring when he's normally healthy, wearing himself down to the bone but never this far and it's a taboo of speaking about anything else for now, trying not to mention much about Izaya when he can't do many things that he should be able to. Shinra finds that time is the best remedy, trying everything he can first as a friend (he's not a specialist in mental health and it leaves him reeling—he knows _nothing_) and that's all it takes for trying, right?

Shinra's fingers brush against Izaya's again, trying for the arm that isn't so damaged and glancing at the wreckage of pins, screws, and everything keeping Izaya's damaged arm in place so that there can be a sliver of hope that means Izaya can recover fully. Right now he's as worried for it as everything else—the mental effects are unknown territory filled with land mines he doesn't want to start on just yet—gritting his teeth is the only effective way to keep pushing on after Celty keeps texting him at odd intervals, from not being able to sleep to concern. All of it makes his heart swell but for now the sensation is muted by watching Izaya's progress, sleeping away and Celty asks again with the next buzz on his phone if he's _sure_ that he'll be fine by himself. And yes, Izaya gives him plenty to worry about. But he doesn't dream of disturbing his darling's much-needed sleep.

Just hearing that she cares about him, as shy as she can be with such tender confessions, it's enough to power Shinra's lovestruck heart to keep beating for her and only her.

"Come on, Izaya," he speaks for the first time in a while, his voice still rough from trying to overcome the stress grinding into his teeth and sinking into his jaw just like his thoughts making the sting of a headache start to pound. "You can't give up yet, right? After all I've done for you, even Shizuo—you'd be surprised to hear what he's done for you. Well, I've done a lot more than he has, but he's the one who made sure you made it through." He hums to himself after checking vitals for the sixth time in the past thirty minutes, officially declaring a break for the next half hour but preferring to keep an eye on Izaya. And maybe he hears footsteps down the hall or maybe he happens to be imagining the sight of his dearest Celty, dressed in her beautiful and alluring pajamas, waiting for him in bed to hold onto him, making sure he's fine and only to comfort her.

And then to shake away the fantasy with another lengthy sigh, face twisting into a bitter scowl when all is not well with his darling or him. It's not Izaya's fault and he hopes the best for Izaya and getting better, counting whatever lucky things he can (considering Shizuo is the one to help keep Izaya alive, luck must be in favor for him now) just so he can say he's not lost all of his efforts or his friend or anything more. Izaya has lost enough, it's not fair for him to sit and rot with all the chances to take and never getting one to recover. Which when Shinra thinks about it puffs a sigh swallowed by his tongue swiping against his teeth, reminding himself to brush them as days are getting long and simple things can be so easily forgotten, shuffling on the balance of thinking of and talking to Celty and taking care of Izaya.

"You're the most stubborn and obnoxious person I know, Izaya-kun," Shinra takes a hand of empty fingers and watches the slow and steady heart rate, rubbing warmth back into the pale skin with his hands, mainly covered in gloves. "So don't give up now, alright? That's not fair, especially to _me,_ who you should treat with a little more gratitude. But also Shizuo, because he's the reason why you're still here and not in a body bag."

And maybe if Shinra's voice trembles just a touch then it's his imagination or it's a stifled yawn, nothing more and nothing less. It's useless, trying to talk to Izaya when he can't listen but sometimes when there's not Celty to talk to and he can't help but be a little more than just concerned, it comes out in streams and not globs of something thick and salty. Shinra likes to think of himself as better than that.

Fingers in their limited, swollen movements, stick to limply lying curled in Shinra's, much smaller only seemingly when Izaya is unresponsive and Shinra never wants to start fearing the worst. The moments like this are harder because being a doctor and being a friend have a fine line of working things out and not getting involved any more than needing to be. Which is harder when he watches the rise and fall of Izaya's chest, an oxygen mask on his face just in case so if there is another scare then Shinra won't feel like pulling his hair out of his head and demanding to know why Izaya has to do this to him—no, no, not quite that. Shinra would rather not admit to the more anguished or just depressing thoughts he's had recently sneaking up on him, making him a little harder to motivate than usual and forcing himself to get through his many repeated tasks of the day.

And just because he can't hear the door when thinking of what to come up with next, it doesn't mean that the intruder isn't welcome going by the fact she doesn't make a sound and for a tired doctor to hear her is next to impossible. Some things are better as surprises, especially when needing to rest and have some reassurance that everything Izaya has been through has not all been in vain. He's hopeful like that, happy-go-lucky with a side of a bit creepy, just like anyone else and a small dash or two of sadistic enthusiasm, but not quite like this.

"You know, you've really got to stop doing this to us, Izaya." Shinra suddenly starts feeling words slip from his mouth and they buzz and numb in the slightest of stinging like thorns decorating the insides of his mouth. "I've lost precious time with Celty, my beautiful love that will always be mine, and my own sleep as well," he chuckles, feeling rough stubble when he scratches at his chin and then his hand goes back over Izaya's, not wanting to disturb the other one tucked neatly beneath blankets and some form of hope—a tool doctors aren't meant to use—to console him from worrying any more. But when trying to stop himself a presence materializes behind him and he can tell who it is by the shadowy brush of tendrils on his shoulder, gentle and letting him know that he's not alone in this too.

It's a heartwarming thought, giving his heart the ability to fly off just from having Celty nearby. (Ah, the wonders of love)

"...But you were getting better, only a couple of days ago. You were completely fine, just tired and starting to build yourself up into the shallow bastard you are. What happened, Izaya? Did I miss something? Did I not notice the pain of having a swollen spleen? Yours was on the verge of bursting when I started to operate, you had me so worried that you wouldn't make it." Shinra rubs his eyes under his glasses and then adjusts them back on his nose, fearing the worst because now the truth is slipping through his teeth and revealing more than he actually wants to say, making him totally uncool and just sappy. He clears his throat with a silent swallow, feeling the buildup of too many things to say of two parts anger and frustration and one part wanting to say _wake up, just tell me that you're okay_ and the other silent parts of saying he shouldn't bother.

It happens anyway, despite best intentions. "I watched you flatline more than once in the past two days, so I think I've had enough scares to make me lose all my hair and become ugly from all the stress I put up with from you." He can recall each time, no more panicked than the rest but earlier today when the blood bruises under skin make him want to just burst at the seams of building himself back up and wanting Celty over and telling him that he's done everything he can. It's just not fair how things work.

And sounding even more unlike himself is only a side effect, he comes to find, of watching a friend die.

Shinra thinks he'll be a fetching old grouch, shaped by all the rough sandpaper edges that will surely make him a mess instead of the handsome young face he is, feeling the urge to laugh at how he would curse Izaya to the grave for destroying him with all of the things he pulls. It's funny that the ones that aren't planned are the ones that affect Shinra the most. Surely Izaya will leave him at a ripe old age in his later thirties, looking fifty years older and _completely_ unlike his wacky father. It's a wish to fulfill and more than that when he imagines his father, disgusted by the mere thought of him.

Celty hasn't said anything at all and it's fine, despite Shinra's desire to hear her thoughts and just to listen to whatever she wants to talk about with utmost attention (and the fact that he's not entirely focused as of late, exhausted from interrupted sleep) when he adores anything she does. His Celty, finally here again and while not for long he wants only to spend most of his time with her, if not all save for the fact that Izaya needs him, regrettably on a level possibly as close as Celty's—which he likes to think and should not say out loud in fear of being punched—so he doesn't try to compare. Just having her there, standing behind him and watching Izaya, is more than enough to calm him down.

[How have you been?] At first he reads the words wrong because Celty's PDA is too close to his sensitized eyes and he has to back away, giving a sheepish smile when he sees Celty realize her mistake with a guilty look. Then he thinks, realizing it's meant for _him_ and then the sun shines back in his smile, beaming at her when he takes one of her hands and the other is still in Izaya's, one of the very few things he can do.

"Not too well without my dearest Celty," Shinra admits, playing with her delicate fingers full of strength and could snap his easily, but she doesn't mind the extra touching when he's missed her enough. "Shouldn't you be in bed? I know my darling Celty said that she can't sleep, and I was thinking that maybe it's because you're without me—ow!" In which Celty thumps the back of his head with a flick, moving to silence him because she doesn't want to show the flush crawling into her smoke and making weird shapes and weird sensations in her stomach. It's mildly inappropriate, especially with Shinra smiling to himself like Celty is the sun and universe and in his case, only in his world.

[And Izaya? Did the transfusion work?] Clearly something has to have happened because Izaya isn't as pale as before, a rosy tint starting to stain his cheeks while his breathing evens out and stabilizes as time wears on. But seeing as Izaya hasn't woken up yet and Shinra looks beyond exhausted, she's not expecting much in terms of good news. As if reading her thoughts, the fingers in hers tighten and she starts expecting the worst, especially after hearing Shinra rant quietly to Izaya for what sounds like not the first time.

Glancing back at Izaya and the healing fingers in his grasp, he catches himself shaking his head before thinking about it. "Pulling through, darling. The transfusion was just in time and I don't know how he survived something as serious as that. I've got to thank Shizuo's incredible capabilities within his blood, though I'd like to do some testing as well, just to see how far the properties extend and their limits on transfusions." Celty gives him a look to stop talking about the experiments, especially when concerning her friend and he gives a little laugh because Celty is so beautiful, even when she's scowling.

She doesn't ask, just as Shinra's face darkens and she knows what comes next with the continuous readings of the reality of knowing better than to try and be optimistic when faced with ominous readings on the monitor and the knowledge that Izaya hasn't been faring well at all. Shinra speaks instead, wanting to fill the angry desolate tone of silence that comes when he doesn't need it at all. Something comfortable would be fine, but this is just grating on his raw nerves. "I don't get what's going on, Celty. I keep monitoring him, check his vitals and everything, but he's not waking up at all. Why would he do that? The anesthetic has been cleared out of his system, there's no reason for him to still be like this." Shinra speaks with bitter words, clenching over his throat and feeling like a mess of tangles if he tries to sort them out of his tongue and set them straight and perhaps feel a few slip over his fingers slapping over his mouth. There are things he doesn't want to say, things he means but he can't risk his own image for.

It would be reckless of him to say to wait until morning to know of Izaya's fate. Mainly because at any moment his heart could fail, any major organs could shut down, and if Shinra isn't there to keep checking on him, then waiting and patiently waiting more if need be. Izaya's condition is delicate and if he breaks off a piece then the entire thing falls apart and Shinra knows there isn't much else he can do but he still tries, not wanting to believe that there is nothing else he can do if he's still alive and Izaya is too. He can keep trying, keep trying to build Izaya back up into being human and then let Izaya go from there—it's the least that is possible Shinra can and will do for the sake of knowing Izaya. Despite what he thinks and his opinion that keeps changing with each hour of no developments or expecting too much, it's still not his fault. There's simply—nothing left—no more to do for him. This is as far as it goes.

A chair materializes to his left, Celty sitting beside him and her hand stays within his, watching like a live wire connecting back to Izaya from beginning to end. PDA resting on her lap she doesn't have to say much, forgoing embarrassment for holding Shinra's hand because they both need this right now and there's no point in denying it. Any comfort for Shinra she would give, if he didn't have to be so awkward or perverted, which would be fine with her. But since Shinra is Shinra and right now he's not at his best and far from, there's little more she can do other than sit with him, however long it takes while trying not to think too much of tomorrow.

After a pregnant pause that drapes over the room in the growing silence, Shinra speaks up again. His eyes don't slide back to Celty when he does and there is no smile on his face. "You even make my beloved worry about you, and that's a feat by itself. But seeing you like this and knowing you better than to let it happen, I'd be curious to see the other guy." Sighing to himself, running fingers through his hair and then back to Izaya's hand, starting to warm up but otherwise icy cold, just like him with a lower average body temperature. "But hopefully you'll forget this by the time you get better, so I'm only saying it once."

Celty notices the odd tone in his voice and the way the room seems to freeze around him, waiting for his next words with a sort of anticipation that is foreign to her.

"I think you're pretty intelligent," Shinra starts, removing his hand from Celty's shadows lacing in between his fingers to brush Izaya's hair out of his face once again, waiting for that tint of any signs of life to come back to Izaya's skin. "And at the same time, you're so hopelessly stupid I don't even know how you're not dead from all the stupid stunts you pull. Constantly beating yourself up for the fun of it, especially with Shizuo, what's the point? Recognition? Validation?" Shinra scoffs to himself, rolling up Izaya's sleeve to check on an IV line taped down to the pale skin and feeling the curve of Izaya's ulna, more pronounced with how thin he is.

"And whenever you come over, I don't get how you can keep laughing at yourself for defying death for another day. What's that going to do for you when the day comes when you can't escape it? You're the idiot who puts yourself in situations like that in the first place, so don't expect any sympathy from me."

If possible, Shinra can pretend Izaya is listening to the lecture because as a friend and doctor he doesn't _care_ if Izaya will hate him more for insulting him. He knows he's not exaggerating and Izaya would know it too. "And when Celty found you, did you honestly expect to live? Because I didn't, and I'm the one who keeps waiting on you and fixing you up whenever you're not okay. So what will it be for tonight? You got another transplant from Shizuo, someone who hates you and yet he's still here, waiting for you to wake up like I am. If you could hurry up, that would be even better." Swallowing the salty bitterness in his throat he rubs at his eyes again, feeling the sting of dormant anger starting to bubble up.

"I'd punch you in the face, but I think at this point you know exactly what you've done. And if I can't punch you even for my beloved Celty, then you could at least wake up and stop acting like you're dead. You've got a pulse, you have blood, you have everything you need—so wake up and stop acting like an idiot, Izaya, because it doesn't get any worse than this." He hisses the words with enough conviction to sound like spitting venom, Celty's hand holding onto Izaya's and then another brush against his shoulder, keeping him grounded because she's the only thing he necessarily cares about but Izaya is on a different scale, not comparable in the slightest. He's always going to choose Celty and he knows it just like Izaya knows there really isn't anyone out there who cares for him beyond Shinra's apartment—that's arguing that Shizuo does and no one knows what to think of that, not now not yet not when—and most would rather see him dead the moment he sets a foot out of Shinra's apartment.

[I think he heard you.] Celty taps on her PDA, even though the readings on the bedside monitor haven't changed and she likes to be opportunistic as well as use all the hope she has. [Just let him rest for tonight, Shinra. If anything goes wrong, you'll know, alright?] Shinra's hands are back in his lap and then Celty takes a careful hand to place over his, feeling the sudden pull of an enthusiastic hug and she has half the mind to punch him for it, startling her so suddenly without any warning.

"Ah, my dearest Celty is so sentimental for me! Truly, it only shows that my love is reciprocated from the most beautiful woman in the universe—!" Just as he starts rambling and his face lights up like the times Celty comes home from a job, he stops, suddenly remembering himself and that he doesn't feel any sharp pain while he holds onto Celty where his head is on her shoulder and then there are arms clad in pink pajamas, white as pale ivory, slipping around him with a gentle pressure that makes his heart melt. Only Celty, his dearest and most beautiful lady of all with no one to compare, could turn him into such a lovestruck mess of love and adoration. Even more so, in the quiet times like this when he can gush about her and hold onto her as something to keep himself grounded, to make sure he's still alive at the end of the day just for her.

[Go get some sleep, Shinra.] Celty types, pulling away from Shinra's grasp and the chair evaporates back into thick black smoke, meaning Shinra knows that she's trying hard to fight the flush crawling up her skin and into her shadows. [Izaya will be okay, you know that. But even you need rest, just like he does.]

It's hard to argue with that logic, mainly when said logic means having to sleep in the same room because Shizuo is using Celty's room.

And just as his eyes light up like Christmas lights or whenever Celty wears a bathing suit, a swift flick to his head knocks his enthusiasm back onto its feet.

[Don't even think of trying anything.]

* * *

_So, the story behind this is that I've been mass updating recently, out of sheer boredom and because EK3 so kindly asked me to, so I got inspired and then wrote yet another chapter, in two nights or less. And last night, on the kink meme, around part 64b, I wrote a note about freaking out. What had happened was that where I live was hit with the aftershock of an earthquake nearby and so me, being me, decided it was a good time to go hide. And that's my amusing story for the day._

_Look at this extra chapter! Just for you, EK3! And all you other sadists out there, I know you're reading this._

_Thank you for reading._


	8. Saccharine Sour

Nightmares are exhausting.

Although the lack of sleep for several days contributes to the overall effect that happens while Shizuo is asleep, it doesn't mean that he won't be angry when finally waking up for the fifth time in what may possibly be an hour. An hour of frustration, of waiting to just go to sleep and wanting to stop thinking about warrants and fires and everything that plagues his mind when he lets it happen. It's not intentional, not like draining his blood for someone he's supposed to hate enough to kill and that's not fair to end a life draining on a bed leaking on the floor by the time he comes to and realizes that maybe he's not in the best of shape. Without even Kasuka to call, especially not him but then even Tom-san, Shizuo starts to feel the pressure of veins snapping when his blood reaches a higher boiling point. All he wants to think is that all of the dizziness and the feelings of not even being where he is now, in Celty's bedroom mind still reeling that this is happening—counting the dips and points in the ceiling's paint chipping off in his mind and falling like ash and snow—to him and there is _nothing_ he can do about it.

And then there's that kid, Kida, who _has_ to be involved. And if it just so happens that the reason why Shizuo has to be contained like a wild animal in a fucking petting zoo is because of that blond punk and his stupid little gang, then Shizuo will have to show him what happens by first ripping the blond hair off his head and shoving it far enough up his ass to make a statement. It probably won't do much, but the more he thinks about it as cold sweat still drips from him and another nightmare, the ideas are growing in imagination, something Izaya always lacks him for at the pulse point of knives and the skin of his throat, bared as a challenge of accept or die.

Rolling over, Shizuo grunts as he tries to get comfortable once again in Celty's bedroom, the bed is just fine and the sheets are much nicer than his, all because of his monstrous lifestyle and Celty can afford to be human while he sulks mainly in his den, pretending that it's all fine and no, he doesn't need help because his anger is his problem and it's the reason why he breaks off everything in the first place. And closing his eyes won't help, no matter how tightly he shuts them trying to block out everything from cosmos and mistakes made thinking of every time he fails himself and then it comes back to bite him now, people searching for him in the only chance he'll ever have of being noticed and it's never in a good way. He never thinks it will be simply because he is too much of a monster to be a human and he tries, keeps trying never stopping never wanting to stop to give up just because of bad decisions and teasing. Shizuo knows the realities, realizes that—it's impossible—things are harder because he's not fully human in a human world.

If that isn't fucking depressing enough, then Shizuo trying not to rip a pillow or burst it into an explosion of cotton fluff from sheer frustration of not being able to fall back asleep has got to be worse. There's simply no way he can fall back asleep, not with being at Shinra's apartment and his friend having to give up her room for him (such kind acts of generosity he can't help but sneer at himself for not deserving even the slightest of what he's gotten) to knowing that he can't repay anyone for what they do for him. Some stranger, offering him to clear his name if he just keeps the flea—Izaya—alive and his tongue still curls when he imagines the guest room again, feeling nausea rise up in heavy waves. Everything for him, fixing his life or supposedly doing so and only to keep Izaya alive with a monster's blood and watching him come back from a state of something not close to being alive. Not even human, just...empty.

Sitting up in bed, the sheets come off and Shizuo tugs himself to his feet, cracking his ankles when he rolls them and feeling the relief of stiffness eventually fading. If he can't sleep under the threat of nightmares eating him alive and spitting him back up just like a useless little toy then he won't stay in here, not where he can't escape the thoughts threatening to bring him back down and suffocate him with the hot and insistent accusations and theories that circle the drain. They're consuming and frustrating because just like his anger they don't end and there isn't a starting point to be had and if he tries to shoo them away with more anger, Izaya comes back to mind as recoil. Something to become nightmarish and force his eyes open wide and staring at the ceiling because he's not doing well at all in a place like this with thoughts like that.

He'll never get to fucking sleep. The goddamn louse, injured or not, is the bane of his existence and if he can't talk he'll still haunt Shizuo no matter what and why. Just like him to latch on and not let go with all parts of being alive and well be damned. Bullshit like that doesn't come easily and certainly not for him no matter how much he wants it and staring up at the ceiling won't solve problems but it'll make him forget that he has any more than the obvious of never being able to sleep when he knows he's not wanted. It's not that he wants to switch places with the flea or that he thinks he—no, now he's just being stupid. All these thoughts that are infectious and permeating and sticking like soggy aftertaste of granola bars and juice the same type of hesitant reassurance Celty gives that he doesn't deserve.

_And he didn't fucking do anything._

Regardless of the facts, the low level of actual confidence in himself must like making itself present now of all times when he's unguarded. Exhausted, frustrated, too many feelings to label and he's not going to hide them but he will in front of Celty because he's done too much to her and the other people he doesn't care about. There's business between them and if he wants to clear himself from this shit then he better grow the fuck up and at least ignore himself and the murmurs of frustrated thoughts whenever they come up at the wrong time. Maybe it's wrong to keep beating himself up like this though when it's involuntary it's even harder to care all that much because it's made itself ingrained like habit. Easy to remember, hard to forget. It doesn't matter.

In the same moment of trying to close his eyes again and forget the grotesque images behind his eyelids he decides that he doesn't want to see Izaya again. He doesn't need a reminder of what he is—it doesn't matter it won't matter what he says no one will—even if it's not his fault he still has the ability to be at fault for other things. Shit that doesn't matter right now and he'll deal with it in the best way he can because he can't rely on Celty to fix things when he breaks them or have his brother worry like his boss who doesn't know where he is. They won't get to know because he hasn't been trying hard enough to keep himself busy, from staring up at a ceiling and feeling guilt for being in his friend's room it's not fair to her that she has too much to do and he has too many faults to fix. It's fine, it's fine, as long as she can put up with this so can he and he will, knowing the deal he has no matter how shady it is.

Shiki is the only chance he has. Whether or not he thinks the guy is a creepy bastard is irrelevant. Izaya is irrelevant—he doesn't want to think about the damage. His brain and mind are telling him a resounding _no_ and if he dares to question then it'll haunt him.

Just like the others that have fallen to his hands and the flea of all people being someone to bother him beyond being awake or knowing that he's here must be his specialty.

It shouldn't be that Izaya can so easily get into his head and stay in there like the parasite he is and this is the opposite of what Shizuo should be thinking but in this he doesn't know what to think with too many thoughts good bad or whatever but truth sticks in somewhere and most of the time. If it involves Shinra's face that he'd like to punch in for good measure with the whole keeping him awake with too much psychological shit then so be it.

Tomorrow can't be any worse, right?

Wrong.

* * *

The sound of the heart monitor wakes him from a restless sleep. Shinra hears it when it hits three in the morning and he still hasn't slept all that much, his beloved beside him and he should be spending the time watching her sleep. Though as soon as he hears the whine of a machine he may or may not be imagining it as he sits up, pulls himself to his feet, and makes his way out the door without trying to wake his dearest Celty. Two days away from two weeks of dealing with the first shock of Izaya showing up on his couch and he still hasn't felt any better than the first moments of switching from tired into doctor mode. He's quite good at hiding what Celty looks for, too sweet and beautiful for her own good to let him rest without asking if he's okay. Of course he is, it's just exhausting trying to figure out what to do when his friend is either dying or he's not really sure what's going to happen.

As he pads down the hallway and only a short distance to the room he's thinking that the noise getting louder is a cause for heavy concern, forcing him awake from the sleepy tendrils remaining in his eyes. Surgery after a spleen near the point of rupturing can be exhausting to a doctor and even more so to the patient—high pitched chirps, turning into a monotone of warning calls—so unlocking the door and pushing his way in he expects maybe there's some complications in place and it'll be fine if he just makes sure Izaya is okay. Some other thoughts, less kind than the ones he's trying to keep hold of now, still linger behind his eyes when his brain isn't fully awake with the reassurances that everything is going to be fine.

The sound of a moan, akin to a wet cough and rattling in the air with warning notes of choking down a breath punctuates the air. Shinra's eyes are on Izaya as soon as he turns on the lights, heart rate stuttering with nervous clicks and whines from the machine and as he makes his way over he's not thinking besides hearing the awful sound of Izaya's breathing, breathless and his skin exceedingly pale once again. _Something is wrong,_ his brain echoes and alarm bells aren't clear enough over the wet gasps Izaya tries to drag into his lungs something is so very wrong when he makes that horrible noise which sounds like he's—

"Izaya, Izaya," Shinra talks at a frantic pace, never minding that Izaya can't hear him if he's asleep like this and his skin is feverish with a clammy sheen of sweat. The moan that comes from Izaya's lips is forced beneath the gas mask and though the neck brace has been keeping his head still Shinra still takes it apart because it's not _working_ the way it should and Izaya sounds like he's not breathing at all but suffocating. The Velcro to the straps comes undone easily under his fingers stilled with medical profession and the ease of checking over Izaya's bandages, watching his chest freed from heavy blankets as it struggles to rise, choking and stuttering over every breath in that isn't reaching his lungs. Diagnoses run through Shinra's head in a frantic list, watching with an odd mortified fascination as Izaya struggles to breathe, slowly suffocating himself as his lungs verge toward collapse with the choked sounds of his chest filling with air.

That's it—pneumothorax. Air is building in his chest and the more Izaya makes the pained moans of breathing in the more he's threatening his lungs to collapse when they aren't getting any oxygen and now is not the time to notice the door opening he doesn't _care_ who it is. Right now he's focused on Izaya, paler than the white pillowcase and wet groans punctuating heavy breaths. It's not supposed to be this bad, of course not, but the wet noise and the gasps Izaya breathes in with his eyes still gently closed like he's just pretending—it's got to be something else. And when Shinra watches the struggle of his throat in stabilizing itself without the brace it becomes more apparent that pneumothorax isn't the only thing he's suffering from.

Oh, Izaya and his ways of getting himself into more trouble than he should. Really should stop doing that, not when he's on the verge of dying yet again and Shinra's mind has more than just a few words to give him to just stay alive for a night without any threat of dying. Seeing as how that's not going anywhere Shinra refrains from voicing most of his concerns, hearing a rasping cough from Izaya and the heart monitor makes a whine of complaint as pulse drops once again. From what he can feel with his hands tracheal collapse can't be ruled out for the cause of Izaya's breathing to cut off down to the groans that slide against what little of his throat can be salvaged. As if being stabbed in the larynx isn't enough, because apparently it isn't. He's not panicking, no, that's unprofessional. Just a bit jittery from nerves to another scare that's taking it too far with the keen interest of taking Izaya from him.

"Surgery may work..." he hums to himself as he tries to reposition Izaya's throat, ignoring the heavy footsteps coming behind him and the question of why it isn't Celty at the back of his stinging throat. The only problem with surgery is the complications and Izaya has just finished being drained of blood but if he isn't breathing then there's not much more than offering surgery. With as battered as Izaya is he doubts Izaya can even pull through this time—it's a dark road to travel down but it's the most realistic in terms of optimism—simply too much trauma being enough to kill Izaya now. He has to start with the small things, that's how he fixes all of the mess that comes with Izaya tangled into problems and complications and issues of life or death and the morality of keeping someone like Izaya alive.

Certainly Shinra has his hands full. Shizuo likes to add to that weight when he speaks up. "What's that sound he's making?" Probably doesn't mean to be intrusive, going by the sleepy tone in his voice and reminding Shinra inadvertently that he hasn't slept for the longest time and Celty keeps asking if he's okay and _yes_ he's supposed to be please stop asking. In order to answer the inquiry Shinra has to keep Izaya's throat stabilized, trying to recall the supply of medications he has for the coughing to keep Izaya from stressing his throat anymore. And to think, he was doing so much better after the surgery and before his spleen started showing signs of rupture.

"It's his lungs collapsing, every time he breathes." Shinra turns his head back to Shizuo and just a little breathlessly stressed out, taking in the sight of his guest with sleep-mussed hair and tired brown eyes wearing different clothes than his normal attire. At any other time, Shinra might have cracked a stupid joke that could easily warrant him a death wish. Well, he's always been one for playing with fate. "Go look in the drawers close to the door, try to find a pouch that says 'codeine'. I need it now." Shizuo may as well make himself useful and Shinra's a little more grateful that he does without complaint, probably too exhausted and judging by his own experience it may not be a bad thing. Not as Shizuo rummages through medical supplies, searching for the IV pouch of codeine to keep Izaya from coughing and worsening his symptoms.

"Are you testing me now?" Shinra sighs wearily, keeping his hands on Izaya's throat and head as he repositions, listening to the dreadful moans that keep coming without any sign of ceasing. Shizuo shifts through items in the background as Shinra keeps his eyes on his patient, the source of all of his recent issues. "Because if you are, you better be alive so I can show you that it's not all for nothing." Of course Izaya doesn't answer but it's not so disheartening if he pretends he doesn't just make believe that Izaya gives him his trademark smirk and remarks coolly that this is all part of the plan. Everything that happens to him has been, or so he says, and as annoying as he is, Shinra would rather hear his stupid rants and bravado rather than the rasp of his lungs crippling under the air filling his chest.

"Can't find it." The worst words to hear right about now. Just as Shinra grabs a needle from a package left nearby on a nightstand and he knows it's going to hurt but he can't risk any more when he configures the chest tube to proper working position, lifting Izaya's arm that isn't broken to position underneath the armpit. Shizuo pads over and Shinra registers the curiosity he feels boring into his back with a confused stare with a vague sort of silence, more filled with tension and grit as he pushes in and the hiss of air confirms that it's working. All the while he murmurs apologies to Izaya, knowing exactly how much it hurts but so long as Izaya's groans stop then it'll be okay—it has to be (just for now, then he can get his revenge later just stay together for now) when it's Izaya.

"I'll order some more. Keep him stabilized, support his head and throat." Shinra steps back to pull out his phone from his pocket, not before showing Shizuo where to keep his hands as the wet breaths from Izaya start to die down. He's still pale from what Shinra can see and the prognosis isn't good, more far from anything hopeful and to the point of suggesting either hospitalization or keeping Izaya comfortable for as long as he can. Even if it's grim Shinra isn't giving up, not yet, not when there's more he can do and if he hasn't tried everything then he can't say anything for sure on whether or not his friend is about to die in his hands.

Shinra excuses himself to check for more medications, thoughts colliding as he composes himself through a text to a supplier, reminding his fingers to _stop_ (trembling) shaking while he presses buttons and corrects spelling mistakes. All he can think of is the same brush of broken and bruised fingers on his, taped on the ends to cover the missing fingernails ripped from bloody nail beds and the disgust that lingers even if Izaya can't see what he does. He shouldn't now, it's enough for Shinra to keep himself thoroughly off put from asking if there's anything worse that can happen to one person. The appetite of whoever did this must be appalling in the same way it just had to be Izaya to take out any sort of frustration or desire upon.

(It's definitely hard to cope.)

Shizuo can feel the warm slick skin of his greatest enemy right beneath his fingers (reassuring that no this isn't a dream it can't be) reminding him that this is supposed to be the bastard he's meant to be angry at. The first time he saw Izaya in this state he doesn't remember much from, only the numb bitter pang that keeps to his bones and leaves him with nightmares before bed. Since there's no reason for them to be there maybe it's best he doesn't mention or think all that much when Shinra's clearly suffering from doing the same thing. Instead of asking himself too much seeing as that's the wrong direction leading in circles spinning in frustration after hearing Shinra practically shouting earlier and letting himself in on this, he sticks to the basics of the here and now. Something Celty reminds him when he can't focus—mainly anger this isn't anger but it's close so close—to just breathe and focus and ignore everything else except what's in front of him.

Izaya makes a wet cough, strangled clips of choking coming from him before Shinra's back to him again, keeping his head up and he knows how much it hurts and he knows the frustration of indecisive lack of knowing what to do. While he waits he keeps checking heart rate, dropping at a rate not too fast but still a cause for concern with Izaya's fever-slick skin and shivering that reaches the tips of Shinra's fingers only where his muscles can contract. The cough turns into a series of small strands, saliva hitting the mask over his mouth as his throat grapples for air that's surely flowing to him but not getting in.

Shinra's hands keep him steady, knowing that he's already unconscious and it doesn't change the fact he's still struggling to survive. "C'mon, I know you're in pain right now. But you can't give up like this right now, Izaya." His words may fall on deaf ears and he doesn't really care. All there is for a source of comfort is knowing that Izaya's listening just by being there, still breathing and still deathly pale while Shizuo's probably waking Celty and Shinra's keen powers of perception catch that Celty hasn't slept much at all throughout the night. Now in early morning he knows it's only a matter of seconds while she suits up for the job, no questions needed because the time he has cannot be spared—Izaya's dying, plain and simple from the throaty gasps that sound as painful as they are scraping against raw flesh and hot metallic blood.

Heat under the bandages from Izaya's throat wound confirm more—to be saved for the hospital. He can add up the missing parts as soon as Izaya is stabilized and not gulping down every last breath soon to be the final one before he can't hold anymore. The chest tube is doing its job even if the hissing of air sounds eerie, releasing the buildup ready to burst and surely the bruising of Izaya's spleen means there's more blood to be cleaned and this is much more of a job than he's thought it to be. And all he knows is that it's never supposed to be like this, especially with Izaya being the one lying in a bed dying of everything he's meant to be impervious to. Maybe he's deluded himself like Izaya has—ha ha—of dying only being for mortals and he's been disconnected for a long time so he doesn't count but he has a keen sense of mortality which Izaya has never fully developed. It would certainly explain a lot of things.

"You'll be fine, you've been through more than this." Shinra pulls long bangs from Izaya's forehead, damp and sticking with the beads of sweat gathering at his brow. "You can't just give up now, right? You have to show off how much of a god you are. Like you always say no matter how long it takes to patch you up." Shaking his head doesn't dispel the memories, Izaya's laughter the same hollow sound as per usual and Shinra thinks he can remind himself of any other time where Izaya isn't practically in a coma listening to his friend talking about him like he's dead.

(In some ways he is.)

"Don't give up yet, all right?" Izaya's hand slips from his and Izaya's ready to go, Celty's waiting for them and the rush is only beginning. Still, it's an icy chill that keeps his throat clogged with words and then stumbling over them in the attempt to not sound as stupid as it does. "You're not that frail. Stop acting like it's the end of the world."

He may just be talking to himself by now.

* * *

He sits by the windowsill, wary of the eyes watching him as he slings one leg up and the other drifts off the side, eyes glued to the streets below illuminated in the light of sleepy early morning. Businesses are shut down because no one has the lack of sanity to keep them awake. There's no reason to be out of bed, sitting in the warmer summer night air with the window pried up and open, fingers leaning off the edge of the apartment window where he thinks he can't be seen this far away and this hidden in the corner of a large city. Everything is fine, he's supposed to know this and of course it makes sense that it is, maybe a bit plagued by nightmares of fire and blood and the stench of rot—it keeps him up longer each night. He assumes it has to do with a guilty conscience, something Saki mentions and he asks her _please_ don't bring it up again. Right now he's not in the mood for a psychology lesson.

"I know you don't like to talk about it," she speaks up, voice higher than a murmur and she's been getting braver, stronger as he watches her grow from the wilted flower she remembers herself to be. She doesn't smile much but she smiles more than before from sitting in a hospital bed, something he likes to keep as a recollection of the things he's done right. Saki doesn't know how important she is to him, a paragon of innocence and strength with the breath of resilience in his ear, encouraging him to keep going even if he's not sure what he's—done—doing. "But you know I'll listen to you, Masaomi. No matter what you have to say, I'm here."

She's too nice for her own good sometimes. Kida has never thought of it as something detracting to his admiration of her but for now—when he puts herself aside, knowing exactly how tired she is from staying up with him—the self-sacrificing kindness of hers just rattles in his ears. It pounds against his brain, heavy and thick like the oncoming signs of yet another massive headache and plenty of painkillers in the drawer where Saki leaves them every morning with a glass of water. She's worried for him, he knows this by the touch of her hand on his arm searing a scorching mark of disgust guilt blame mistrust—no, no, she means to be gentle and calm. Saki couldn't be mad at him, no reason to be and all he's been doing is just missing her with days going by and some things don't go according to plan but so long as she's safe he doesn't have too much weighing on his mind.

But he can't turn around (face her, tell her what he's doing where he's been why is he why—) and see the small smile lighting up her face, hands resting on her lap as she sits up in bed and even if she doesn't see where exactly he's looking she still doesn't ask for much. Saki is the kind of girl Kida has never known to exist when he cares too much and she keeps giving herself up to making others feel better. She's too nice, too gullible, and it makes his temples throb more when considering leaving Saki alone for a day, a torture he's had to do plenty of times before. For now they can take their time sitting here in a small apartment room that's not so bad and it's got a nice bed so they're okay for now. Saki can listen to the stories he tells—never mentioning Mikado and Anri-chan—with her quiet brand of enthusiasm. At least one of them pays attention.

"I know that, Saki." Kida shakes his head, one hand to his hair pressing lightly like she does, thumb on his cheek and fingers splaying from index at his temple to the shell of his ear with his pinky. Though his own hands aren't as soft and warm as Saki's are, unused to the strange feel of fluids that don't run off turning his hands a dark brown as soon as they last staining every bit of skin and the smile he means to upkeep she can _see_—Saki is just a girl, a lovely one with a heart too big for her tiny frame and it's still a new experience, knowing it all belongs to him. "You're always there for me."

When he turns his head to her, his throat tugs on a hard swallow that just won't go down. "Thank you."

Saki smiles, blind and unknowing and saccharine sweet.

Just for him.

* * *

_It's been so long, and now with updating all the other chapters to look and read much cleaner, I hope I've done some good for once. If anyone still reads this, of course, but I wouldn't blame if no one did with how slowly I update._

_Thank you for reading._


	9. Silence Screaming

Ikebukuro has been a shell of a town, lately.

Ghosts of whispers continue to haunt the areas where the rumors start cropping up like conspiracy theories for UFOs, something that keeps the boredom from spreading its tendrils deep inside the city's foundations. Life in the city never is meant to be boring, not with more excitement rising, kindling a fire that none have ever seen before. And it twists and disfigures itself into the branches of rumors, spreading and growing to places where they never should, only to lead on into the main topic of them, seemingly lost in translation.

Pulling his phone from his pocket, Mikado stands, alone now after just having walked Anri home, more of because she's a friend rather than her needing his protection—always something interesting wherever he goes. This is what he's wanted, the reason he came to the city to make sure that his life wouldn't succumb to the dull life of the countryside, but rather embrace the vivid and vicious place that Ikebukuro is. Not without help from the occasional text—knowing he shouldn't is tedious to remind himself of—to an almost reliable source, more for the thrill of taking risks rather than the truth. After all, in this town, he's learned that the truth never comes without a price, something the informant teaches all too well.

[What are these rumors about you from?] Something simple, sent with another look over and he turns to head back home, unwilling to stay out for much longer when there is plenty more to do on gathering his own information. Izaya's prices never stay the same for long, despite how much he sells himself as an honest information broker—Mikado doesn't buy it for a second. Hence texting him, staring at the list of texts that have been sent over the past weeks, totaling a month before Izaya disappeared. Completely off the radar, nothing left but unanswered texts and suspicions rising.

It's of no matter, pocketing his phone he almost does until his fingers freeze, taking the curve down the street for blocks away from his home. There is always the network to use, something unpredictable, messy, and not so much charming as it is tedious with the false information and rumors, but with what he has now, it's better than nothing. With nothing quite like the raw information of rumors from the members of the Dollars, there must be something worthwhile he can dig at until it gives what he's looking for.

His fingers flying over the keys, he types one message, quickly reading over and deleting it—not too prying, just enough to nudge at the hornet's nest. Another is too vague, how does one ask for the information of the disappearance of the most notorious informant in Tokyo? Bluntly, perhaps, though it doesn't suit his needs for digging deeper into why Izaya cares to ignore him now. Besides the incident of that warehouse fire (maybe that has something to do with it) only to shake his head, since it doesn't mean more than some fools playing around with fire. Never expecting to get burned, just like the people who think they can do as they please in the playground that isn't theirs to rule.

Finally he settles for something, scrolling through his list of contacts to select the Dollars. On one hand, it may sound almost like asking for too much, questioning the position of a capable leader—never mind that. The information is important, and in Izaya's words, worth the cost. Though without so much as becoming close to what Izaya resembles; nothing good in his mind.

[Does anyone know why the city has been on edge?] One click sends it, his phone moving to a loading screen as hundreds of contacts appear to receive the message as it finishes sending. There's an edge set to his jaw, clenching at his teeth and working against scraping the bone as he thinks, reminding himself not to chew on the inside of his cheek as a habit of his that's been developing recently. He could blame the stress for it, though that would be too far from the truth—enjoying it much more than worrying over it.

Instantly, replies come folding in from [_there was that warehouse fire with Shizuo Heiwajima! They say he killed people set them on fire and now he's in hiding!] _and on, leading to a mess of texts scrambling to cover the screen of his phone with what little time they have before the next ones come in.

_[That's ridiculous, why would he kill anyone and set them on fire? You always dump people into Tokyo Bay!]_

_[No way, you guys don't get it. Shizuo would do that, like if that yakuza was coming after him. That's so scary~ /.\\]_

_[oh yeah, you wanna try that? I heard someone saw him at a hospital checking on his secret wife that's in the yakuza! He saved her from being kidnapped!]_

Just a few of them and he shakes his head, approaching his home as he looks up from his phone, deciding to send out another mass text to clear things up. More and more replies flood in from conspiracy theories, _aliens _and _secret government experiments _along with groundless nonsense and others asking more questions to the replies filtering in.

[Wait, Shizuo Heiwajima? What does he have to do with anything?]

Ping, fifty more messages. A headache in the making, more like it. _[well I heard that—]_

_[He's part of the Yellow Scarves!]_

_[Don't be stupid, why would he do that?]_

_[Haven't you seen him before he vanished? Like a month ago, but my girlfriend swears her best friend saw him!]_

_[You know, the Yellow Scarves have been acting cocky recently.] _

That catches his attention almost immediately. [What have the Yellow Scarves been doing? Does anyone know?]

_[They're jerks, what do they have to do with anything?]_

_[My cousin is one of them, says that the leader died and now they're mad.]_

_[What if Shizuo did it!?]_

_[Shizu-Shizu? Where is he!?]_

_[I heard the leader went into hiding, promoted someone to be in his place, but then they disappeared too.]_

_[No way! In that warehouse fire? Was that them?]_

_[Ohmigosh! It makes sense like that! So they caused the fire?]_

Unlocking his front door, slipping inside and soon his shoes, Mikado takes a breath for a moment, thoughts running through his head as his phone continues to buzz with incoming messages. So maybe the mass text isn't exactly a good idea, now knowing this from the mob-like mentality of the members of the Dollars. But he's more focused on the issue at hand, including the disappearance of Izaya, only for it to cause too much suspicion if he asks directly. Raw nerves in his head start to pulse with the influx of information, a snide question to how Izaya keeps himself sane—never mind.

Moving over to his computer, he starts it up while scrolling through the latest of texts, reminding himself of what rumors have come up so far. The Yellow Scarves, a change in leaders, and disappearances. Interesting, but lacking the meat of the information and the confirmation still hiding with too many times the rumor has gone through others. Just trying to piece it together makes the task nearly impossible, too many viewpoints and suggestions with theories and unreliable sources making the overall effort time-consuming and he'd rather not spend most of his time doing so without somewhere concrete to start.

He presses on the power button to his phone, uninterested in reading the messages as he starts up the internet, deciding to search for a few leads himself instead of navigating through endless texts that don't have a sliver of information to them. And as his homepage comes up to the Dollars website his head throbs, processing all of what he's done and recalling what texts stood out to him and their potential. Something akin to the recent aggression of the Yellow Scarves he's heard about in class, that sounds like a good place to start looking. All he knows is mainly rumors, twisted from the word of mouth from his classmates and the fact that none of them seem to be entirely sure of the dark clouds rolling in over Ikebukuro.

The first search term he can't exactly look up. The Yellow Scarves don't exactly have much on themselves, too disorganized as a gang to have any sort of website like the Dollars. Even with the forums on the Dollars website there isn't anything of worth, as suspected. Only someone with a membership would know about the inner workings of the Yellow Scarves, with a slim chance of knowing something that isn't a rumor. Mikado sighs to himself, hovering over the chat room's logo on his desktop as he hums to himself, thinking it over again. If the Yellow Scarves aren't as available, perhaps someone in the chat would know?

But then it would only bring suspicion to himself. Something he'd rather not do.

Although if _Kanra _is there, then that would spell out a different set of opportunities. Trying to leech off some information would be possible, as fluid as Izaya is online and with answering questions with more questions. And if Kanra isn't on, then it would be a matter of asking anyone online who would know something, as slim of the chance there is. Only if he ponders over it for too long, turning the idea inside out inside his head more times than he cares to count will he start to reconsider—he'd rather not, content with getting more knowledge to satisfy himself, no matter the means.

The chat room loads within a couple of seconds, presenting a blank screen that almost becomes hopeless when Mikado sees it load. No one is online, but two people talking back and forth, one with an unidentified name, the other, Bakyura, who Mikado doesn't remember, turning through pages of old information within his brain, being on for quite some time. Maybe over a month with the chats he has participated in, day and night, with no sign of Bakyura. Up until recently, maybe a month ago where Bakyura had said something, quickly deleting it before anyone else had a chance to read it. Not that it would be important, he presumes as he scrolls through Bakyura and _Sei's _conversation, to take any notice of.

And then he comes to the point they aren't talking about something meaningless like the weather. But the Yellow Scarves, almost like they had been expecting Mikado—preposterous, given the reason that it's just his aching headache filling in the spots where he should actually think instead and he blames it on frustrations starting to rise with the light of impatience making its way through. Instead of acting upon it, he waits, calculating questions as he reads over the most recent messages, thinking of how he could possibly extract some information if these two know anything. And from what he's reading, once, twice, and three times over, it's just in his luck that they do.

-Tanaka Taro has entered the chat room.-

Sei: the other gangs are smelling the blood in the water

Bakyura: It's the Yellow Scarves' fault, after that informant disappeared.

Wait, what? Mikado blinks again, thinking that coincidences just don't _happen _like this but according to the chat room, he isn't misreading. Quickly he thinks of responding, curiosity bubbling through his fingers and into his keyboard. His mind reels with this discovery, the mistrust of Sei still implicated when Bakyura isn't exactly reliable either, but with all he has, it's the best he can do for someone starting with much of nothing but dead leads.

Tanaka Taro: What happened to the informant?

Sei: later man

-Sei has left the chat room.-

Well, there goes one source. But since Bakyura remains, maybe he can try to see if anything good will come out of joining the chat room. All the previous remnants of their talk don't have much on what he's looking for, rather speaking in a way he finds cryptic, slipping over his tongue without the ability to think of what exactly it reminds him of. All he knows is that it slips through his fingers, in through his brain and without any resonance besides unusual conversation, too simple and too effective to sit still through.

Bakyura: What do you know about the informant?

Something about this seems far too off for his liking. Almost like Izaya: hiding, waiting until when he least expects that he's spilling more than he should to an essential online stranger.

Tanaka Taro: Not much, only rumors.

Bakyura: Good. Keep it that way.

Bakyura: It's too shady, that informant being gone like this.

Tanaka Taro: What are you talking about? What happened?

Bakyura: He can't be dead.

Bakyura: Stay away from this, Taro. It's too fishy for someone like you to be poking your nose in.

Tanaka Taro: I don't know what you're talking about.

Bakyura: If you want to be like that, then expose it.

Tanaka Taro: What?

Bakyura: What Izaya Orihara is hiding.

-Bakyura has left the chat room.-

Great.

His phone finds itself slithering back into his fingers, fumbled with as he thinks over the short-lived conversation. It doesn't make any sense now, not with the cryptic messages left by whoever Sei is and Bakyura, bringing even more suspicion to the both of them. As for why they would talk on the chat room, he's not entirely sure he knows—much less how yet another was accepted into the chat without Izaya around. Even with the silence, nothing excludes Izaya from being at fault, something Mikado knows from a business relationship with many ups and downs, all part of working with a person just like Izaya. He knows exactly how cunning Izaya is, taking short leaves of absence all too common for someone hiding more than he cares to let on, with a high price for information.

As his phone comes to life, more messages flash as unread from a previous conversation, marked for deletion as soon as it loads enough to do so. Clearing it improves the speed, easily enough, and without having to go and individually delete every single one, much like his last phone's settings.

Suddenly his phone buzzes, and it's from a blocked number, addressed to the members of Dollars—how did someone use that network—and as he goes to open it, every thought and theory stops in his mind, frozen. On the screen is too eerily familiar to ignore, now sent to hundreds upon hundreds of people reading it at this very second, processing the message's contents from the unknown sender. It _almost_ makes Mikado resort to going back on the chat room to find out who is responsible, no doubt in his mind, but he doubts the original sender has any intention of staying around long after this revealing piece of information sent to his phone in not one, but many messages.

[_(Blocked Number): _Izaya Orihara was kidnapped and raped by the yakuza for his crimes. He is weak and no more than trash.]

[_(Blocked Number):_ Izaya Orihara murdered innocent people in the warehouse fire in Ikebukuro.]

[_(Blocked Number): _Izaya Orihara has been targeting gangs, including the Dollars.]

[_(Blocked Number): _Izaya Orihara is not your friend. He killed innocent people, tortured them, and is coming for anyone who doesn't stop him.]

[_(Blocked Number):_Izaya Orihara raped and murdered people. He tortured them to threaten every gang in the city and make them fight each other.]

[_(Blocked Number): _Izaya Orihara must be caught. If you want revenge, you have to join the fight to stop him.]

[_(Blocked Number):_Izaya Orihara will never help you. It doesn't matter what gang you're in, he will find you and ruin you and those that you care about.]

[_(Blocked Number): _Find Izaya Orihara.]

[_(Blocked Number): __S_top Izaya Orihara at all costs.]

Mikado reads over the messages again, absorbing the information presented neatly like a silver platter with a decapitated head danging in front of rabid wolves. Of course, knowing the mob mentality that exists in humans, it would make more sense to deliver negative news like this, inciting what could have the potential to be something terrifying on the spectrum of an all-out manhunt to find the one and only missing informant. And with no other sources to start from, investigating these rumors would take a bit of time to uncover them, as grisly as they sound involving the informant and his apparent involvement with murder. Whatever the truth is, Mikado won't stop at anything to know.

After all, someone with the capability of digging up a little dirt on _the _Izaya Orihara ought to be someone he may want to get to know.

Just for the sake of keeping himself on the sidelines for as long as needed.

* * *

Celty watches from afar, shadows flickering at her feet as Shizuo cracks his knuckles next to her, antsy with the urge to mangle the guy being interviewed by the Awakusu-kai footmen they've been left to stay with. Shiki-san says it has to do with keeping Shizuo occupied, as well as Celty (for information tactics, he says and she doesn't like his small smile) with the simple underground missions. Ones like these lead to finding a source of rumors, this time about Shizuo—hence the unrestrained anger, hiding in the shadows like _criminals—_and she can almost understand the partial feeling of Shizuo's desire to smash this one's face in. Almost. The only thing that holds her back is that she knows she's not prone to anger, nor to letting herself get out of hand for as long as they've been going on small missions like this with the purpose of clearing Shizuo's name.

The source of a rumor, a particularly nasty one involving Shizuo _raping_ Izaya, decides not to cooperate. Unbeknownst to him, Shizuo watches from behind, hearing every incriminating word and Celty has already offered her apologies he doesn't accept. Instead he says not to, since she's already here with him and that's more of a sacrifice—not to her, since Shizuo is her friend and she cares about him enough to be here with him until his name is cleared. And it's clear in the murky frustrations of trying too hard to keep composed they're both affected by how long they've been out of their normal lives, composure fraying with each and every day hidden like this.

One of the Awakusu-kai men starts talking louder, unaware of the growl that slithers from Shizuo's lips where he's been biting them to keep quiet. He knows that he can't just give himself away like this when it has the potential to jeopardize his innocence which is why he lingers in the shadows, waiting for some signal agreed upon to show some strength if no one cooperates. Which is hard enough, waiting in the shadows day after day and she sees the effect it has on Shizuo—knowing there's nothing she can say to make it better only feels worse. The grind of his teeth and the frustrated sighs bordering on defeated make her blood simmer, feeling the heat through her veins and just trying to think of something to say that would make it at least somewhat better for Shizuo.

But nothing is working. Shizuo still looks worn and weary, tired like a dog without any reward or sleep for that matter because she hears when he wants to call his brother and he _can't. _She knows Kasuka has already left him messages, Tom leaving even more when he's worried and she realizes at those times that Shizuo could never do something so violent as murder people and set them on fire. Much less hurt Izaya, which she knows isn't true and she hasn't said anything about Mikado's friend, the blond holding Izaya from the moment she found him and realizes that Izaya is her delivery. And it's not like she's been meaning to keep things from others, the direct opposite of her intentions, but she doesn't understand still how someone could start rumors about Shizuo, unless it was Mikado's friend, right?

It doesn't make any sense.

From her phone she connects to the chat room, Shizuo having already stalked off to the lower end of the hideout they've infiltrated, empty of anyone and capable of handling himself if anyone dares. From her phone she waits as the chat loads, figuring she could kill some time if she could talk to Tanaka Taro or Saika for a while to calm her nerves.

-Setton has entered the chat room.-

Tanaka Taro: Hey there, Setton.

Saika: Good evening, Setton-san.

Setton: Ah, thanks guys. How are you?

Saika: Good, just a little tired from homework.

Tanaka Taro: Yeah, same. Where have you been? You've been gone for a couple weeks...

Setton: Really busy with work, sorry. The only time I had off was sleeping, I couldn't waste the chance.

Saika: It's okay, there's no need to apologize, Setton-san.

Setton: What have you guys been up to while I was gone?

Tanaka Taro: Kanra and Bakyura have been gone for a while too.

Saika: They have, where did they go?

Before she can answer, a text message from Shinra forces her attention from the conversation, showing a message preview before she accesses it. A thought comes to mind, questioning why Shinra would be texting her so suddenly when they've already talked earlier. With how late in the hour it is it makes even less sense, then again, knowing Shinra like she does, he never happens to make much sense at times when he's come up with something he deems as important.

_[Izaya's doing better, why don't you come see us my darling? I have something to talk to my sweetest about. Bring Shizuo, please?]_

Celty reads over the message again, just to be sure that she's hearing the good news (along with Shinra's slightly annoying pet names...) before she has any time to start reacting now. But the good news is much better than the dour evenings of waiting for good news after Shizuo's apartment has been cleaned. No one knows where he is, save for Shiki and a handful of others including herself, a precaution Shiki warns that cannot be overlooked. Shizuo's still off down the path, the clicking of his lighter the only indicator that he's still there and hasn't been present for most of the interrogation. Celty sighs to herself, shadows growing from her feet to slither across the ground and reach Shizuo, tapping at his hand to get his attention and to head back, since she doubts they should be seen by someone who could possibly identify them.

By the time Shizuo heads back Celty looks for an exit, deciding on the path they took from the way in [We've got to go, Shinra wants to see us.] Shizuo reads it, the vengeful boredom on his face taking a curve downward as he frowns, about to ask before Celty replies she'll message Shiki so they won't have to interrupt. After all, being here isn't exactly by choice, but with the enthusiasm Shizuo decides on leading the way out, it's clear that neither of them would rather be doing these missions when they've already had their lives taken from them the moment the warehouses burned down. Not something Celty likes to think about, in the midst of falling asleep at night if she tries to pretend she can. The feeling of being cooped up like this, housed like criminals—she knows it's for the best—it takes its toll easily, where she can see it reflected on Shizuo much more than she can herself.

Her phone buzzes with a message from Shiki, the chat room long forgotten after Shinra's message. _[Tell me how the informant is when you see him, Courier-san.]_

* * *

Izaya is paler than a ghost, filled to the bring with tubes and wires to the point of being covered in them instead of ugly hospital garb and a breathing mask. With as small as he looks drenched in all of the equipment he's almost barely there, survived by the heart monitor steadily picking up while Shinra chatters enthusiastically to Celty who can barely keep herself up that things have been looking so much better, it's hard to contain himself. At any other time she'd speak up and ask if it's the same Shinra she's talking to as the one who watches over Izaya, reporting daily progress now for the past couple of weeks without a hint of complaint—a complete turnaround, really, marked by the fact they're all tired and Shizuo isn't starting any fights when she offers they come to the hospital.

Part of this, the loud, noisy, ringing in ears part, is Shinra talking too loud when it's a silent hospital room and if Shizuo can obey the rules, then Shinra shouldn't have to put himself in danger of being thrown out the nearest window. By how loud he is, his voice echoes even from outside the room, thumping against the sides of Shizuo's skull with an incoming migraine voiced by days without sleep and an overall lack of enthusiasm for much of anything besides getting out of Shiki's little errand runs. He's not fond of pretending to be excited for stuff like this, not as Shinra pulls Celty aside and infers that Shizuo could spend some time _talking _to Izaya like it's a normal thing (adding that he behaves himself, of course he will when he's already given Izaya monster blood) and they forget the facts of the much harsher outside world.

Whatever. So long as Celty looks happy, albeit exhausted, to talk with Shinra, then he's fine with it. Even though he still can't call Tom or Kasuka, under the fear of putting them under any suspicion. The voicemails his brother leaves are more than enough to tempt him to call back just to tell him he's okay, but with Shiki's annoying reminders (_forcefully _polite) he can't do anything and unless if he wants his phone taken away he should realize that living underground isn't the greatest of luxuries, but it beats a death sentence.

Looking to Izaya and the empty chair lined up against the wall, practically beckoning him forward, Shizuo grumbles to himself, never once taking his eyes off the mess that is Izaya with all the medical things and charts he doesn't understand at all. From Shinra's earlier hasty introduction there are fragments of what Shizuo remembers, something about a broken rib and a punctured lung infection and to not _touch _any of the tubes draining the excess blood from his chest (like he'd do that—only Shinra would think such) because they hurt like a bitch and Izaya has been too fussy while unconscious to be anything more than delicate around him.

When he takes a seat at Izaya's bedside, it's not as mind-numbing as it was before. No feelings of disassociating, like he's not even there but watching somehow from the realization that the invincible piece of shit Izaya is isn't all that invincible when covered in tubes and wires. Just now, it's a solemn feel of frustration—how does this even _happen—_to keep breathing in the sterile air of hospitals and Izaya and reality setting in. It's not so hard for him to cope with the fact that his life has just been thrown out into the trash and he's living like it now, but sitting here and staring at Izaya's uncovered fingers of his right hand, he's not sure what to think. It's all too confusing and strange to see someone like the flea reduced to something so...helpless.

It's almost sickening, in a way, until Shizuo convinces himself he doesn't care. And then he remembers the helpless feeling as he donated blood, Izaya's wet coughs sounding far too small for someone who's that big of an asshole with the worst feeling of _karma's a bitch _to realize that things aren't the way they should be. And whoever is the asshole to fuck up Shizuo's life he doubts at times that he has it the worst whenever he thinks of Izaya, lying in bed in a fucking _coma _because his brain decided to shut down. Only if he does that then he doesn't stop thinking about it and he won't tell Celty or hell, Shinra, because Izaya is far different from an average human being and he's worlds apart from comparing to Kasuka.

It's maddening, that's what it is.

Izaya's fingers look better than their swollen, bandaged and splinted remains from the last time he saw him, loosely draped on the bed while his other arm is still covered in a cast. The oxygen mask to his face makes him look paler, clear with the gentle rasp of oxygen flowing from a tube and standing out against the pale skin slowly healed of all the bruises Shizuo remembers. On his throat, Shizuo sees only faint reminders, bruised scars of hand prints and it makes his tongue thicken with lead and his stomach churns with disgust. As faded as the prints are, they're still marked with old blood that hasn't drained and he doesn't ever remember seeing any marks on Izaya, much less from old fights where he managed to hit the damn twitchy flea.

The hiss of the machines pumping and the steady beeps of the heart monitor fill the silence. Shizuo thinks of something fleeting to say, just to keep the dull noise from ringing in his ears as he swallows and finds his voice digging itself back into the confines of his throat. Paralyzed as it is, no amount of pretending to not notice dismisses the quiet cough that seems like thunder clapping in his ears.

"Hey, could you watch him for me? My darling Celty and I need to go order some new medications for him, try not to kill each other." Shinra's annoying voice comes from behind him, waved off with a grunt as he laughs to himself with his little joke. Celty taps her foot impatiently, probably sticking up for Shizuo and seconds later he hears a muffled yelp, bringing a short smile to Shizuo's face while he gazes off to the wall and loses track of himself in thought.

A noise brings him back, the slide of Izaya's hand falling off the side of the cot—Shizuo goes to grab it, noting how icy _cold _his fingers are compared to Shizuo's hands, even if he does run a little hotter than others. Though with Izaya's hand dwarfed in his and slowly being warmed up by the skin coming from Shizuo, it doesn't take long for the frigid bite to settle into something warmer, still far from regular body heat and damn, he hasn't noticed the flea is as frigid of a bastard as Shizuo believed him to be.

He almost misses the nurse knocking with soft taps on the door, giving notice to herself before she steps in, moving to Izaya's left, quietly checking over Izaya's vitals while Shizuo stops, realizing he's been massaging the fingers of Izaya's hand absently. She doesn't pay him any mind, writing things down on her chart and making a noise with her tongue, one of neither disapproval or marked difference, but rather one of noting the apparent changes on the heart monitor. Though when he meets her eyes, she gives him a short polite smile before finishing writing on her clipboard.

"It's good he finally has some visitors," the woman mentions in a strange accent, long dark hair tied behind her in a high ponytail, pocketing the pen in a pocket of her blue scrubs. "Kishitani-sensei has been here most of the time, taking good care of him with our other doctors. But I've not seen a single visitor until now." When he looks to the name tag hanging off her shirt he gets the name, Rona, and nods silently. She continues looking at the heart monitor and other machines, quietly taking notes to herself as Shizuo watches, Izaya's fingers slowly coming to wrap around his before he can take notice.

The heart monitor makes a shrill noise, alerting the nurse to something and Shizuo's looking at strange readings on the screen, deciding to better spend his time than trying to decode medical jargon. Not like it means much of anything, not if Izaya's still asleep like he's not been here for the past weeks.

Shizuo runs a hand through his hair, sighing to himself while Rona stays quiet, thankfully not as annoying as Shinra—hell, no one is besides the flea—until she makes a sound of surprise, directing his attention back to her.

"It looks like he's waking up," Rona notes with hum, turning back to Shizuo and glancing at their joined hands, where Izaya's fingers are wrapped loosely around Shizuo's and he doesn't remember doing that. "Congratulations! I'll go alert the doctor, try to stay with him and just talk to him, all right? You don't want to startle Orihara-san." And then she's out the door, shoes clicking on the linoleum floor before he has any time to ask what the hell is going on and why she's so excited before it starts to make sense in the fog of his brain. He can blame it on fatigue for not knowing what she means exactly, confused to hear the news while it rings in his head for a little longer just before it starts to make any sense.

And then the heart monitor quickens with a pulse of speed, slowing back down to something sturdier, lighter than before and the oxygen mask remains constant with the rasp. Izaya's breaths become noisier, heavier if anything Shizuo notices, and all of a sudden he's looking down at his hand again where there are fingers tightening on his thumb and it starts to register with his brain that _this_ is happening.

"Izaya...?"

* * *

_Regular updates will be starting soon and with Edge. Thank you all for your patience._

_Thank you for reading._


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